


Ice Would Suffice

by ShadowBlazer



Category: Game - Fandom, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Angst, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 101,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowBlazer/pseuds/ShadowBlazer
Summary: [Political Marriage AU] Daenerys Targaryen arrives on the shores of Westeros and, despite her best judgment, decides to adhere to the idea of "diplomacy" as her advisors and King Robert suggest. She agrees to a marriage with someone from House Stark to seal a political alliance with both the North and South. The only fault with the plan is that she ends up proposing to the wrong Stark.





	1. Fire and Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Halifax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halifax/gifts).



> I just wanted to write a political marriage AU with Daenerys/Sansa. Some details from the show/books have been changed to fit the narrative, like King Robert being alive.
> 
> Much thanks to my betareader Halifax whose love for GoT and extensive knowledge of lore has been helpful.

Her dragon scares everyone at Winterfell when he flies over, and Daenerys enjoys the feeling as he dips down into a cleared space within the castle walls that she assume is the courtyard. A wall of soldiers in dark armour surround a square of paved stones, swallowing at the sight of the massive beast. The rest of the castle gathers behind them at a distance, pointing and whispering. Daenerys ignores them as she focuses her attention at the two figures waiting for her close to the centre of the courtyard, distinguished by a greatsword in the hands of one and the dark red hair of the other.

The dragon lazily lands with a slight drop, snow scattering in the air as he snorts, the common folk huddling right up behind the soldiers to see him. Daenerys dismounts Drogon and faces the bearded man in black furs and the red-haired woman besides him. “Lord and Lady Stark? I assume you received the king’s missive for my visit?”

Ned Stark nods, his expression grim. “You are here to seal an alliance between you and King’s Landing by marrying one of our children.”

Catelyn’s expression hardens. “We are honoured to have you choose our family.”

Daenerys inclines her head, smiling. “The pleasure is all mine.” She keeps eye contact with Catelyn whose lips thin. “I was hoping to meet them today before nightfall.”

Ned grows grimmer. “Of course. The king mentioned that you may wish to get started right away.” He exchanges glances with his wife who turns away. “We will go get them.” 

He gestures for her to follow and after barking a few commands to her men, Daenerys follows the northern lord with only Jorath and Missandei behind her with both having dismounted right after her. The Starks lead her into a winding path past stone bridges, arches, up to the gate of the keep, and inside its corridors. They enter through the main entrance, the enormous oak doors requiring four men to push them open, and, inside, Daenerys admires the bustle of servants throughout the keep, the crackle of wood in strategic fireplaces inviting her to come to them as the Starks take them to a cozy room two flights up. 

Daenerys sits at the round table in the middle of it as the Starks asked for her patience in locating their heirs. She rests her cheek against one palm as she taps her long fingers along the worn, dark table. The room the Starks usher them in is large enough for the three of them but not much more. The grey stones of the wall have banners of the Stark sigil plasters down its length, and the single window on Daenerys’ left side shows the courtyard below with the inhabitants of the castle milling in bunches. “Why can’t we just take King’s Landing?”

Jorah glances at her. “And what would you do if you lose your temper during the attempt?”

“Probably burn the whole city down.”

Jorah shrugs as if saying, “There you go.”

Missandei walks behind her chair and leans in, gently laying her hands on Daenerys and giving her a quick massage. “Let’s give these things called negotiations and diplomacy a try. If you want to be a ruler instead of just a conqueror, you must learn to master them.”

Daenerys grunts, and Missandei smiles, letting go as Daenerys turns to watch her friend shake her hair out. “Besides, you can never tell how an invasion will go. I would rather keep my head, thank you very much.”

A knock sounds on the heavy, oak door, and Daenerys calls out to invite the visitors in.

Lord and Lady Stark enter with a young, handsome man with a heavy frown across his face. His armour gleams brightly, his black cloak new and clean, tossed almost carelessly over one shoulder. The way he held his head high and his shoulders back suggested the bearing of someone raised in a noble house. 

This must be Robb Stark.

Robb sits across from Daenerys as Ned and Catelyn watch behind him. Missandei and Jorah stand with Daenerys with Missandei eyeing the young Stark son critically with a frown. Daenerys discreetly elbows her friends who turns her gaze away. Robb sits down across from her, lacing his fingers together in black sheepskin gloves. He smiles, his expression a little restrained.

Daenerys spots the wariness right away. “Would you kindly leave, so we may get to know one another privately?” She sweeps her gaze across the older Starks and her advisors. “All of you.”

Catelyn rises, her mouth open in a protest when Robb holds a hand out and nods in Daenerys’s direction. “I agree that would be best.”

Catelyn frowns but follows her husband when Ned heads for the door and squeezes her shoulder on his way out. Jorah nods and exits while Missandei subtly bumps her hip against Daenerys’ back. Once the door closes behind them, Daenerys turns her attention to Robb, handsome and resplendent in his armour and cloak. 

Robb Stark is good-looking, commanding, and charismatic. He also looks utterly miserable in a discussion of a potential betrothal with Daenerys. “It is an honour to be considered by you. It is not everyday a man gets to meet a visiting queen as beautiful as yourself.”

“Likewise. You look as handsome and strong as the rumours back in King’s Landing say.” 

“Indeed. If you were to choose me, our...our children will blessed in many ways.” He falters, his eyes dropping. He stares at his hands. “And I am a man of my word. Say the word, and I will marry you.”

She studies him, the tightness in his jaw, the sorrow in his eyes as he spoke. “You already love someone else.”

Robb stiffens. “I know not what you speak of.”

She sits back. “It’s written all over your face.”

Robb jerks and drops his eyes. “Like I said, I am a man of honour, Lady Targaryen. If you choose me, I will serve in the best capacity I can to link you to the lords of the North.”

Daenerys taps her fingers along the table. “I expect nothing less.” She frowns. “I have gathered enough from our meeting to make a decision. Could you please find Lord and Lady Stark, so I may speak to them?”

His eyebrows rise in surprise, but he gets up at once. “Of course.”

The Starks along with her advisors come in shortly after Robb leaves. Missandei raises an eyebrow at her. “That was short.”

“Yes.” Daenerys studies her fingers on the polished wood grain in front of her. “He wasn’t the right one.” She raises her gaze to the startled Starks. “Do you have any more you could show me?”

Shortly afterwards, a young, lean man who lounges in his chair sits across from her. Bran Stark is a smart-ass. It’s written all across his face. He smirks with all of his sixteen years of arrogance. “I—“

Daenerys slams her hand on the table. “I’m done.”

Discussions with the Starks don’t go quite so smoothly after that.

Catelyn crosses her arms. “You will not have Rickon.”

Daenerys frowns. “Who is Rickon?”

Ned glances at his wife. “That would be our youngest. Nine years old as of this summer.”

Daenerys snorts. “Clearly, I wouldn’t take him, but I need to marry someone from your family.”

Catelyn’s eyes flick. “Ned has another boy.”

Ned casts a sharp look at her while Daenerys watches them. The queen sits back. “Only him?”

Lord Stark clears his throat. “Jon is known as Lord Snow around here. He is...a bastard.”

Daenerys watches Catelyn’s lip curl and files this moment and its implications away for later. “Is he still considered a Stark then?”

Catelyn drums her fingers on the table. “He is Stark enough for your purpose, isn’t he?”

Fair point. “Where is he?”

Ned glances at Catelyn. “He is practicing sword fighting with the others. I will have someone fetch him—“ 

Daenerys stands, alarming them. “No, I will get him myself. I could use the walk.” The stone grey room is getting on her nerves. “You must have more important matter than the matchmaking of your sons.”

Catelyn gives her a pointed look. “We know exactly how much importance your presence has.”

Daenerys bites the inside of her cheek to stop from smirking. After a short description of what Jon looks like, she excuses herself with her advisors and after some garbled instructions from a terrified squire who barely met her height, she found her ways to the courtyard where the clang of steel sound out. She spots a ring of young man cheering on two fighters as they face off inside the square, swords swinging in bright flashes in the winter sun.

Daenerys spots a young man with a head full of dark curls standing away from the others. He is the only one who turns when she approaches. 

Jon Snow is tongue-tied the first time he meets her. When she nears, he lifts his head from his band of brothers and stares, freezing until she comes within arm’s reach of him. “Good day,” he breathes.

Daenerys resists rolling her eyes. “You must be Jon. Your parents told me so much about you.” She holds out her arm. “Would you care to give me a tour of your grounds?” She gives Missandei and Jorah a look, who back away to give her space.

Jon fumbles for her arm and clumsily loops his around hers. He guides her from the courtyard where quite a few heads turn at her entrance, and he begins narrating the history of the castle. Daenerys, for her part, finds it interesting, watching with amusement as his eyes linger on her just a tad too long to be polite. He takes her through the sections with the smithy, the guard’s hall, along the side of the walls that lead closer to the keep.

At some point, past the gate that leads north, someone dark and thin barrels into Jon, bellowing his name. “Did you see the dragon that landed?”

Jon pushes back a lean girl with a serious, long face. “I did. Let me introduce you to its owner.” He turns to Daenerys. “Lady Targaryen, this is my youngest sister, Arya Stark.”

Arya watches her with sharp eyes. “How did you get a dragon?” Jon smacks the back of her head, and she grumbles. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Targaryen.”

“Please call me Daenerys. I like to eschew formality.” Daenerys smiles. “And if we become better friends, I will give you another name to call me.”

Arya’s brows furrow. “I already know several—”

Jon clamps his hand over his sister’s mouth and pushes her off in a random direction. “Sorry, Arya, but I need to finish showing her the tour of the castle. You can ask about dragons some other time.” 

Arya slinks off, skulking, and giving the pair a dark look. Jon looks at her and awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “I apologize for my sister. She can be—”

“Blunt?” Daenerys laughs. “I don’t mind. Better to have someone be straightforward to your face than whisper behind your back.” She pauses. “You say she is your youngest sister? Where is your other one?”

A movement catches her eye above them. Daenerys looks up and spots a girl with hair the colour of bright flame at the top of the wall beside them, leaning over the rampart and looking like she would like to jump.

Daenerys shields her eyes against the glare of the sun. “Who is that?”

Jon glances up and starts. “Sansa!”

The figure looks down before darting out of view. Jon mutters, striding towards a set of stairs on the side as Daenerys follows. “She’s leaning out farther than before.”

“Who is Sansa?”

“My sister. She—she recently became betrothed to prince Joffrey.”

“Really?” She’s poised to become the next queen of Westeros? Daenerys should meet her. “Then, why does she look ready to throw herself off?”

Jon shakes his head as they ascend the stairs. “You haven’t personally met the prince yet, have you?” He lapses into silence as he hurries up, eyes straight ahead, searching. 

When at last they reach the top, they spot a figure sitting at the far end, wrapped in a large hood of black fur and glaring at them. Her expression is controlled, but her body tenses like a bristling beast backed into a corner.

“Jon.” Her voice cuts through the winter air like a whip. He winces. “You are too nosy for your own good.”

“Sansa.” He rushes over to her as she stands, nearly eye to eye, and Daenerys has a moment to admit that the Starks are too damn tall.

Sansa settles the hood upon her shoulders. She brushes by Jon’s outstretched hand, pausing only when she reaches Daenerys. “So, you are our esteemed guest?” She tilts her head, studying her with unreadable eyes and exposing the long lines of her neck. “My apologies. I have not properly introduced myself.”

She curtsies low, bunches of black fabric in hand as she lowers her gaze.

Daenerys eyes her. “You dress as if for a funeral or a wake.”

“Who is to say that I am not?” Sansa stands and bows demurely at Daenerys. Her expression is blank before smoothing it out with a smile that would almost be charming if it reached her eyes. “Good day, my guest.” 

She strides past and down the stairs, disappearing in a rustle of black against the grey stone and snow.

Daenerys stares after her. “Your sister—“

Jon shakes his head. “She can’t say no.” He glances sidelong at her. “If she does, she’ll start a civil war. The only way we can break it honourably is if someone of a higher standing than the prince proposes to her, but there's no one in Westeros who could.”

“She looks like she would rather end her life than marry him.”

“With the way she’s been carrying about, we are afraid she might.” Job glances at her.

Daenerys peers down the stairs of Sansa’s flight. “That would be a shame.” She thinks of Sansa’s face—of the pleasing planes and shapes. “A real shame.”

The mood ruined, the pair head down the stairs to conclude their tour. Jon brings her back to the castle and shuffles his feet in the snow. He clears his throat. “I hope the tour is to your liking. If you like, I can bring you further outside of the castle to Winter Town.”

Daenerys smiles. “I would like that. By the way—” She leans, placing a hand on his arm and watching him swallow. “—do you know why I’m here?”

“You are here to choose someone to marry to seal a political alliance with our House.” Jon casts his eyes down, his tone bitter. “I suppose you will pick a real Stark.”

“Perhaps. But maybe I just need someone Stark enough.” She glances over her shoulder at a stunned Jon. She turns her head forward, smirking. When she returns to the keep, a servant guides her to her room with Missandei’s and Jorah’s right across from her. Missandei remarks dryly when Daenerys relays what happened about how serious and handsome Jon Snow is, like a hero from an epic.

Daenerys still hasn’t decided by the end of the night.  
—  
On the second day of Daenerys’ stay, she muses about her options, citing to her hosts that she must get to know her potential husbands better, particularly Jon. She informs them that he offered to show him around Winter Town just outside the castle walls. They nod in assent with Ned looking bewildered and Catelyn turning her face away. They send a guide with her and her advisors to the edge of the eastern gate where Jon elected to meet her.

The guide’s a damn chatterbox—a young woman with brown twin braids hardly older than Daenerys with a hunter’s bow sling across her back. “That was an impressive dragon you had. Haven’t seen one up here ever. Oh, no. It reminds me of the time I tried going to Essos on the back of a deer. Mind you, I didn’t know that Essos was across the sea, so I tried finding out if deer can swim. Well, you see—”

Daenerys breaks in. “What can you tell me about the Starks?”

“Oh well, The men are a pleasure on the eyes as you can tell, but the women—” She casts a glance around. “—the Stark women are wild. Tends to run in the family. I see it in the sisters.”

“Wild?” Daenerys straightens up, tilting her head. She thinks of the polished Sansa at the top of the ramparts. “The younger one I can see, but both of them?”

The guide shakes her head. “That’s because you don’t know her yet.”

Daenerys snorts. “I’ll see for myself then.” To Daenerys’ massive gratitude, Jon comes into view and waves at them at the edge of the gate. She bids her garrulous guide farewell and gestures for her advisors to reluctantly leave her be.

Jon grins, a hand resting on the sword at his side. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Daenerys smiles, and Jon’s grin grows wider. He gets the guards to let them out, and she blinks at the field of dark trees blanketed with snow stretching beyond her. The sight is blinding, and she squints to manage the amount of sunlight bouncing off of the snow.

Jon offers his arm to lead her, and Daenerys catches a motion out of the corner of her eye in the dark trees beyond the path. She studies the area and spots auburn hair as its owner pause, sensing something has seen her.

Sansa turns, and in the brittle sunlight, her eyes glow like a wolf’s in the dark. With her huge fur hood, heavy cloak, and dangerous glower, she looks every bit as wild as the sigil of her house. Something snaps in the wildness beyond her, and the spell breaks. Daenerys blinks, and Sansa darts sideways out of sight.

Daenerys takes a step to follow when she feels someone grab her arm. She turns to see Jon frowning at her. “The town is that way. Shouldn’t be more than a 10 minute walk.” 

“I—” Daenerys glances at the trees again. “Is your sister out here?”

“Which one? Both went out for a walk earlier.” Jon frowns, studying her. “Are you well?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Daenerys puts on her best smile. “Lead the way.”

Jon takes her to the town where many of the household servants live. They gape at her while she passes, some with curiosity, others with narrowed eyes of suspicion. 

Daenerys leans in close to him and feels Jon stiffen. “Friendly, aren’t they?”

“They need some time to warm up to you. We don’t get many people from other places up north.” Jon pauses when a nearby growl from something massive rings through the air. He grabs the handle of his sword, crouching. “What was that?”

Daenerys cocks her head, listening. “Drogon is probably close by. Sounds like he found people or they found him.” 

Jon jerks up. “There’s a dragon in the nearby village?”

“He’s under my command. As long as you don’t irritate him, you’ll be fine.” Daenerys eyes a group of boys about waist-height bolting towards Jon. “By the way, you have a small army heading your way.”

Jon looks up just as the boys bowl him over, excitedly gibbering to see him and asking for him to teach them sword fighting. Jon gently tries to push some off before he gets swallowed by the pack. Daenerys chuckles. She turns towards the north where the roar came from and frowns, feeling something calling her there. “I’ll be back,” she says to no one in particular as she follows an instinct that tells her to come closer to Drogon.

She makes her way to the edge of the houses to where the forest begins and continues on, brushing past trees and snow-covered shrubs in her thick boots before coming into a clearing with a familiar dragon and two Starks she’s seen before. She finds Sansa staring at Drogon with the other Stark girl who tries to climb onto him.

Daenerys smirks. “Most dragons prefer to be asked before they get ridden.”

Arya pauses at the sound of her voice, partway up Drogon’s hind leg when the dragon swats her off into a snowbank with a lazy swipe of his paw. Sansa runs over to her, only for Arya to get back up, brush off the snow, and circle around Drogon for another way.

Sansa sighs in frustration and glances at her sidelong. “So, he’s yours then. You like taming wild beasts?” 

Daenerys glances back. “I do.” She studies Sansa, the glow of her hair in the sun, the tight set of her jaw. “I really do.”

Sansa yanks Arya off before Drogon can smack her off with his massive tail. “You can’t climb onto him without permission.” Sansa looks back at her and crosses her arms. “And in any case, Arya can’t ride. She’ll fall off.”

Daenerys smirks. “Do you want me to take you for a ride instead?” Sansa snaps her head so sharply at Daenerys’ direction that the queen laughs. “What’s the matter? Afraid you will enjoy it?”

Sansa stares. “I’m afraid you would. A little too much.”

Daenerys eyes Sansa. “Would you blame me?”

Sansa tosses her head back, a short harsh laugh escaping her. “Should I? Aren’t you the queen?” She leans against Drogon, who surprisingly lets her, huffing gently. 

Daenerys feels something stir inside her at the sight on Sansa on her dragon. She suddenly would like to take Sansa for a ride.

Arya shoves past her sister, muttering. “Stop flirting.” 

Sansa nearly snarls and pushes her sister back. “I apologize for her rudeness.”

Arya stomps her foot. “It’s not rude. It’s the tru—” Sansa shoves her into a pile of snow. The young girl howls in indignation as Daenerys chortles, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. Sansa glares at the snow-covered Arya, who clambers out. The older sister’s cheeks are as red as her hair. 

Daenerys wipes at her eyes. “How kind of you two to entertain me.”

“We will be taking our leave now, your Grace.” Sansa grabs Arya and propels the girl in front of her.

Daenerys calls out after them as they leave the clearing. “That offer for a ride is still available, you know. I could take you back to the castle.”

Sansa pauses and glances sidelong over her shoulder. “Perhaps, you should offer it to Jon. He may appreciate it more.”

As she departs, maintaining eye contact all the while, Daenerys finds herself staring after her, thinking that she really wouldn’t offer it to him. She pats Drogon’s head and mutters soothing words before leaving the clearing back the way she entered. Jon finds her just as she re-enters Winter Town, absolutely frantic. 

He pants, “Where were you?”

Daenerys shrugs. “I found your sisters, and they were kind enough to chat for a moment.” 

Jon shakes his head. “I was afraid I lost you.”

Daenerys laughs. “You can’t lose what’s not yours.” She turns to the castle. “Shall we head back?”

Jon escorts her back to the keep where Daenerys reconvenes with her advisors about the whole day. She meets with Robb and Bran briefly again to confirm that yes, Robb is still in love with someone else, and she can't stand more than a minute with Bran. Later that night, she and her advisors get invited to a big supper with the Starks, and Daenerys smiles graciously at Jon the whole time as he tries to make conversation with her while Sansa ignores the pair of them. Across the table, the redhead would almost glower, the tension in her shoulders visible from Daenerys' seat. Whenever Daenerys tries to address her, Sansa would close down the conversation with a terse but polite remark that invited nothing further. Daenerys gives up after a few attempts and gives her attention to Jon and Ned beside her. As she is about the leave the Great Hall, Catelyn asks to speak with her alone.

Once they arrive in a room nearby with canvas-covered boxes and a dusty desk, Catelyn begins immediately. “Please take Jon. He suits your goal enough, and he doesn’t belong here.”

Daenerys watches her face, her hands. “You know not what I aim to do.”

“Conquer Westeros?” Catelyn crosses her arms. “It’s as plain as the eyes on your face.”

“And yet you entertain my requests?”

“The enemy of my enemy...” Catelyn looks away. “Consider Jon. He is already half-in love with you. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

“I will contemplate my options and let you know in the morning.”

Catelyn nods a curt goodbye, and Daenerys makes her way back to her room. She already knows who she will choose, but something roils in her stomach at night when she lays down for bed. She sighs and gets up, throwing on a heavy fur cloak as she makes her way down silent halls and heads outside for a walk to clear her head. Her feet lead back to the wall when she first met the older Stark sister, and something tells her to climb. Daenerys makes a point of trusting her instincts, no matter how wild they seem.

‘I must be out of my mind,’ Daenerys thinks to herself as she huffs in the freezing night air, breath escaping in a white plume. Nothing in her body seemed to disagree with her assessment. When she gets up to the landing beyond the last step, she finds someone else there.

Sansa Stark paces like a caged animal on the stone floor. “What are you doing here?”

Daenerys eyes her coolly as she steps onto the platform, moonlight painting the stone and the girl in front of her in silver. “I had thought to go for a walk. It seems you had the same idea, Lady Stark.”

Sansa jerks her head. “My mother is Lady Stark.” She glares, lips thinning. “My name is Sansa.”

“Sansa.” Daenerys likes the feel of it in her mouth, the sounds that roll over her tongue. “What are you doing up here at this hour?”

Sansa looks at her, silent. “I also wanted to go for a walk.”

“Something on your mind?”

Sansa doesn’t answer. She studies Daenerys as if thinking something deeply, her gaze intense and sharp like a dagger. It makes Daenerys swallow as the roiling in her belly grows stronger. She turns away, pointing to a shining star far to the east and south. “My people’s homeland is over there.” She squints at the star and moves closer to the edge of the wall.

Daenerys leans over a parapet, hands flat on the stone below her when she suddenly feels the press of Sansa against her, her senses suddenly sharp and alert. She feels fingers grooming her hair, running gently through it, warm breath brushing by her ear with the smell of lilacs distinct in the winter air, and her entire body stiffens. Warmth creeps up her shoulders and neck.

“I was thinking that perhaps I have been colder to you than needed for your arrival.” The voice murmurs close to her ear—low and sonorous. Sansa presses closer, warmth and weight at Daenerys’s back. “What are you doing here so far from King’s Landing? If you wanted the throne, shouldn’t you be there?” 

“Despite the rumours about me, I am aware of these things called tact and diplomacy.” Daenerys feels the rise of every one of Sansa’ breath against her back. Her own breathing grows a little ragged. “And I have been seen to occasionally use them.” 

A hum. “And you came to the North for another conquest?”

“An alliance. If they will have me.”

“I’m certain that many will love to have you.” The warmth pulls back, and Daenerys turns to follow. Sansa stands before her, her expression unreadable. “Like Jon.”

Daenerys snorts. “He’s not subtle.”

Sansa’s eyes flicker. “Do you prefer subtle?”

Daenerys tilts her head slightly, studying her. “What interest is it of yours what my preferences are?”

Sansa gazes back before reaching forward to brush a wayward strand of silver hair behind Daenerys’ ear. “You would be surprised. I make it a point to understand all of my guests’—“ Her gaze flick towards Daenerys’ mouth briefly. “—preferences.”

Daenerys catches her hand as Sansa pulls back. “What of mine then?”

Sansa meets her eyes, and Daenerys is reminded of the ice upon the northern lakes she saw when she flew over. “You are more flexible with them than you show.”

Well-read. Daenerys steps close without thinking and Sansa retreats, shaking her head. Daenerys narrows her eyes. “What game are you playing with me?”

“Perhaps, the same one you play with Jon.” Sansa slowly lifts her head to meet Daenerys’ stare. “Jon, for his part, is a very honourable man. He’s the kind who would rather stab you in the front than the back.” She turns and leaves for the stairs.

Daenerys calls out. “What about you?”

Sansa pauses, one foot on the top stair. “What of me?”

“Are you honourable too? Or are you trying everything you can to get out of your own betrothal?” Sansa shoots her a sharp look. They stare at each other for a long while before Sansa puts her foot down and continues her descent.

Daenerys stands, catching her thoughts as they spin around from the interaction with Sansa. Never had she met someone who read her so well. For a moment, Daenerys almost reconsiders her choice before she shakes her head and follows Sansa’s trail down the stairs, seeing neither sight nor hair of her.

In the morning after breakfast, she tells her hosts she chose Jon.

Ned frowns, deep furrows between her brows while Catelyn hides a satisfied expression with a feigned cough. Ned studies her, frown deepening. “Why Jon?”

“Why not?” Daenerys looks at Catelyn who hurriedly hustles to the kitchen entrance.

Lady Stark doesn’t glance at them as she exits. “We need to let the servants know, so they can prepare a wedding feast for tonight.”

Ned looks like she clubbed him with his expression. He clearly did not expect a wedding so soon.

Daenerys is ushered from the meeting room by servants and guided back to her room by her guards. She scribbles a lazy note to King Robert, declaring her choice of husband and announces that she would be riding back with him within two days’ time. Once she sends the message off by courier, she spends her day catching up on reports from her various cities and allies.

Nighttime comes, and Missandei barges in to pull a blue dress onto her and touch up her face, ignoring Daenerys' fussing. They make their way down to the Great Hall with Jorah muttering the entire way.

“You picked the bastard,” Jorah hisses as they make their way down snowy streets to celebrate Daenerys’ choice. It never seems to stop snowing in the north. “You had two Stark men, and you pick him.”

“Why, Jorah, you almost sound jealous.” Daenerys keeps her gaze ahead. “It would be in name only, and he seems to be the most handsome one. Don’t you agree?”

Jorah makes a noise in his throat, and Daenerys smiles to herself. She inclines her head slightly. “He also seems the most smitten with me, and hence the most...agreeable.”

Missandei hums in her throat, tapping her fingers along her arm. “I would think there are other Starks smitten with you.” When Daenerys shoots her a sharp look, she shrugs. “If you have not noticed, it is not my place to say.”

“Missandei,” growls Daenerys.

Missandei shakes her head. “Have a great betrothal party, Daenerys.”

The moment they step into the Great Hall, the air explodes with clapping and excited shouts. Jon, the man of the hour, grins shyly from her across the hall, pink-faced with a goblet in his hand. Robb wraps an arm around his shoulders, congratulating him and looking distinctly relieved. A host of people crowd up to her, congratulating her, and she loses sight of her advisors in the tumult. 

Lord Stark rescues her as he pulls her from the crowd, citing personal congratulations to give. Once pulled to a corner of the room where there is less people, Ned hands her a golden goblet of sweet-smelling wine several shades darker than his wife’s hair. “To the joining of our families.”

Daenerys takes it and looks around the hall. Guards, tutors, and maids dance and hang around the great hall in guffawing groups. Even the servants and the cooks mingle amidst the Starks, chatting and laughing as if old friends. “You sup with your servants?”

“I dine with my friends.” Ned nods. “This is the custom of the North.”

“Well, then I still have many things to learn of your traditions.” 

Ned is quiet but brimming with something to say. Daenerys raises an eyebrow and gestures to a secluded alcove. “Something to say, Lord Stark? Some fresh air would do some good to loosen the tongue.”

Ned jerks but nods stiffly as Daenerys turns to lead to the alcove, a curved recess in the walk with cushioned seats underneath a solemn painting of bare trees in a snowstorm. Once they are out of earshot of the others, Ned begins immediately.

“Please don’t take Jon,” Ned asks, quietly. “It would not...it would not be good for either of you.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow. “Your wife is of a different opinion.”

“Catelyn...Catelyn doesn’t understand.” He winces. “My failing, really.”

Daenerys tilts her head in thought. “Say I do change my mind, which of your children will you offer in place of Jon?” When Ned doesn’t respond, she shakes her head and moves to slip past him. “That doesn’t work for me, Lord Stark. I need to take someone.”

Just as she’s about to step out of the alcove, she hears Ned’s voice call out behind her. “Is there anyone else you would rather take?”

Daenerys pauses for a long moment before continuing on her way. She makes her way around the hall, smiling at her congratulations to the point where her face became stiff, and she retreats up the stairs to a secluded section of landing for a tactical pause. She runs into Sansa Stark, reclining on a long chair with something dark in her eyes and a drink in hand. Sansa toasts her as Daenerys approaches.

“You must be so proud. You got the best Stark.” Sansa lifts her goblet, her tone almost mocking. “A toast to the dragon queen and her bastard.” 

Daenerys watches her gulp down the wine. “This isn’t your first glass.”

Sansa laughs, high and tight. “Forgive me. I have forgotten how observant you are.” Spots of red light up her cheeks. “Am I not allowed to celebrate, dear soon-to-be-sister of mine?”

Daenerys steps forward and sits down next to her, pulling the cold goblet from Sansa’s fingers, brushing against hers. She meets Sansa’s sharp gaze. “Most people celebrating look happy, not as if they are trying to poison themselves with wine.”

“Then, what do you propose I do?” Sansa’s tone could cut through flesh. “Await here witlessly for my betrothal to a prince who—“ Her upper lip curls. She exhales slowly. “This is not about me.” Drawing back, she plasters that not-quite smile on her face. “Congratulations to you. I pray for many blessings and children for your marriage to come.”

Daenerys studies her. “And I would wish the same for you, but that seems to be the last thing you want.”

Sansa’s lips thin. “What would you know about what I desire?” She shifts back and sweeps her gown behind her, glaring at Daenerys with that look the queen can’t quite decipher. 

“I know you don’t desire your marriage.” Daenerys leans forward, watching Sansa who tenses but doesn’t retreat. “And that you don’t desire Joffrey Baratheon. The question is what is it you really want?” She closes the gap until their gowns brush, and she hears Sansa inhale sharply. “Or who?”

Sansa tosses her head back and laughs, a twisting, bitter sound. “What matter is it what I want?” She shakes her head. “You forget here in Westeros, women are pawns and toys, not conquerors.”

“I plan to change that.” Daenerys slides closer.

“That is of little doubt.” Sansa looks at her, and something in her gaze changes, becomes softer, hungrier. “It is admirable in a sense.”

“Is it something you admire?” Daenerys feels her eyes slide to half-mast, bathed in the scent of lilacs and lilies from the woman in front of her. Sansa’s breathing deepens as Daenerys reaches out to trail her fingers along the side of the silk gown. “If so, careful. You may not want your brothers to hear.”

“Perhaps, I do not care what they think.” Sansa tilts her head, eyes half-closed. 

“I find that unlikely.” Daenerys inhales when she finds Sansa inching closer, leaning in with her eyes fluttering closed. Underneath her perfumes, there is the strong stench of ale, and Daenerys snaps out of her mood. She glances around, noticing people climbing up the stairs for a retreat, their eyes on them, and, regretfully, slowly, places a hand on Sansa’s chest to push her away.

“You are drunk, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys whispers, and the spell breaks.

Sansa staggers, a quick retreat backwards as if burnt. “I beg your forgiveness. I have said things that are merely passing fancies.” She ducks her head, knuckles white on her dress. “I will leave you to enjoy your celebration.”

She rises and hurries down the stairs, and Daenerys calls out. “Lady Stark!” When Sansa doesn’t stop, she tries again, ignoring the curious stares cast her way as she hurries after the fleeing woman. “Sansa!”

Sansa twirls around in the middle of the stairwell, the party just below her, with a brittle expression like cracking glass, desperation fresh across her face like a girl drowning. Daenerys speaks before she thinks.

“If you do not wish to marry him, marry me instead.”

It is Daenerys’ luck that the moment she speaks these words, a lull settles in the buzz of conversations around them. The hall falls silent—the words ringing in Daenerys’ ears like the aftermath of an explosion. Jon from across the hall has his face drawn, pained while Ned’s jaw drops and Catelyn’s face twists with fury. Too late to retract the offer, it hangs heavy in the air like wildfire waiting to spark as Sansa Stark pauses, silent, and the hall watches.

“Do you mean what you said? If you did, and you are a woman of honour...” Sansa turns her eyes onto Daenerys, a strange, hard light in them that makes her features like stone. “My answer is yes.”


	2. The Road Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys wakes up the next day to face the reality of her betrothal to Sansa. And her rejection of Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much thanks to Halifax, who is a fantastic betareader, an awesome person to bounce ideas off of, and very loyal to the characters and the lore.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Halifax! This chapter is for you.

Jorah glowers at her in the safety of her room after the announcement. “What in the seven hells were you thinking?”

Daernerys sighs and sinks down into a nearby chair. “Clearly, I wasn’t.” She frowns, looking out the window. “We got out fine.”

Fine is an overstatement. After Sansa’s acceptance, the room spins into silence before it erupts into cacophony—some cheer, some jeer, many are confused, and Jon looks betrayed. Daenerys watches the Stark family wade through the common folk to get to the staircase, and she decides to leave. She darts past Sansa who grabs her wrist as she passes, the fragile look in her eyes tempered by something like steel, and Daenerys can’t help but feel that she got sold. 

Sansa lets go, and Daenerys flees to the bottom of the staircase as confused arguments break out in the crowd. Several cries of “She can’t change her mind” or “She can’t marry both” rise above all else. The Starks still are trying to push their way through, and Daenerys darts to the side where Jorah and Missandei are already gathered with her cloak by the main door. They escape, huffing into the growing snowstorm to the keep where they race up to Daenerys’ room. And Jorah decides to launch into his lecture.

“You have to understand that the man who would have been your betrothed husband is humiliated. There is no way he would agree to a marriage alliance now.” Jorah slumps against the wall. “I certainly wouldn’t in his shoes.”

Daenerys snorts. “Well, I’m not marrying you.”

Jorah twitches, fingers clenching before he turns away. He continues, voice tight. “Regardless, unless you plan to marry the two Starks, you need to choose.”

Daenerys pauses. “Can I marry both?”

“Unfortunately not.” Jorah frowns. “Polygamy is highly frowned upon in Westeros as are illegitimate children.”

“That could still work, since technically, I would only have one wife—“

Missandei shakes her head. “One spouse at a time, Daenerys. Pick the one you want.”

Daenerys sighs and rests her elbow against her table. “Jon could give me heirs with a maid or something to further my line, and he has enough of his House for the marriage to be recognized. Sansa, however, is considered more of a legitimate Stark and has a higher standing in Westeros.” However, marrying Jon doesn’t come at the cost of offending the crown prince in Westeros.

“Which do you want more?” Missandei studies her. “Jon Snow? Or Sansa Stark?”

“I—“ Daenerys definitely wants Sansa. “Are you sure I cannot marry both?”

“Daenerys,” Jorah looks at her, tired, “just pick one and be done with it.”

Daenerys frowns, thinking of Jon’s shy smiles and Sansa’s wild looks. “I choose Sansa.”

Missandei tilts her head. “What about the alliance with the South? If you take her, that may cause some tension with the ruling family. I thought you were trying diplomacy.”

Daenerys points an accusing finger at both of them. “I attempted your idea, and, now, I have a prospective wife and war on my hands.” She drops her head to the table, muttering. “I should have invaded like I wanted.”

Jorah sighs, “I understand it was not natural to you. However, it doesn’t change the fact that you could have picked wiser in the first place.” He settles down at the table, taking a seat. “Taking another’s betrothed has grave consequences.”

Daenerys taps her fingers on her temple. “Jon said that the only way to break the betrothal favourably is for someone of higher standing to propose. I would imagine that the only one higher than the crown prince would be the visiting queen of Essos, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re getting yourself into a mess.” Missandei shakes her head. “You were trying to rescue her, weren’t you? Take her away under your name and live a quiet life apart.” She tilts her head. “Not even sleeping in the same bed or completing your marital duties.”

Daenerys pauses. “No, I definitely plan to bed her.” 

Jorah chokes, and Missandei tuts. She gives him a quieting look. “Those kinds of marriages are rare but not that unusual.” 

“Yes! But they are not made on the basis of—of—” Jorah coughs.

“Language,” Daenerys growls, her voice a low rumble as she rises slowly. “If we can’t discuss this civilly, then I suggest we all sleep on it and reconvene in the morning.”

Jorah leaves with a miserable look on his face while Missandei casts a worried glance back. She leans in, placing a cool hand on Daenerys’ arm. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Daenerys shakes her head, and Missandei lets go. She nods and leaves Daenerys to her own thoughts as the queen sinks into her bed by the window side. When she can’t sleep, she gets up to write another letter to King Robert, informing him of her change of mind and preparing it for sending in the morning. She settles back into her bed, hoping that by sunrise, she has some sense come back to her.

—

Catelyn and Ned Stark sit stone-faced across the table from her of the meeting room where Daenerys met Bran and Robb. She waits, poised in return, with her hands folded in front of her. She feels her palms sweat.

At last, Ned inclines his head. “You changed your mind.”

“Yes.”

He continues, examining her. “You wished to marry Sansa instead of Jon?” 

“Yes.” 

Catelyn slams her hand on the table. “You can’t have her! She’s—”

“Of marriageable age,” Daenerys cuts in, keeping her tone carefully bored. “And prior to my offer, she was betrothed to Prince Joffrey, which she had not indicated that she liked.” That is an understatement. “As I understand, she also broke the marriage agreement honourably.”

Ned rubs his face. “All of this is true, but you must understand, we were...taken back when you proposed to Sansa. And she accepted.”

Daenerys shifts. “So, what happens now?”

Ned sighs, “A verbal contract in front of that many witnesses is considered legally binding in the eyes of the Westerosi. We sent notice via raven this morning to Prince Joffrey that his betrothal to Sansa has been declined. Since he only proposed in writing, your case would have the greater weight, as you declared it publicly.” He drop his head into his hands. “Robert will not be pleased with this turn of events.” 

Catelyn snorts. “We will be lucky if they do not decide on an all-out war.”

“I mean with Sansa and I.” Daenerys flits her eyes back and forth between the two Starks. “What happens with us?”

“You’re betrothed. Isn’t it obvious when you asked last night?” Catelyn crosses her arms before sighing. “If you are talking about our customs, we will hold the wedding ceremony a week from now. After you exchange your vows, there will be a celebration feast and then the bedding ceremony.”

Daenerys perks. “Bedding ceremony?”

“Don’t look so excited.” Catelyn laces her fingers together on the table. “It is a common tradition to carry the betrothed to their wedding beds,” Catelyn explains. “In some places, it is even customary to forcibly undress the newly married pair to help them along.” 

Daenerys clutches her cloak tighter to herself. She mutters under her breath, “Savages.”

Ned exchanges glances with Catelyn. “You should speak with Sansa first to see if she is still of the same mind. She was going over some documents in the Great Hall for the wedding as we speak.” He coughs. “I may have said that I would send you over once we finish.”

She pushes her chair back. “Well, I will waste no time to meet my new bride.” She bids the Starks goodbye and makes her way to the hall with Missandei in tow. Jorah disappears to gather intelligence of what the common people think.

Daenerys pauses just before entering the hall. She carefully creeps in, stepping behind a pillar as she spots Sansa in a heavy oak seat. Missandei takes a look at the situation before walking ahead. She grabs a pitcher of water and a goblet from a passing servant as Daenerys frowns after her.

Sansa waits at the table for Daenerys. Missandei passes by and places a goblet in front of her while Sansa glances up sharply.

“Please drink.” Missandei smiles before turning around. “You were looking rather thirsty.”

Sansa doesn’t touch the goblet. “Where is your lady?”

“I believe she will be your lady soon.” Missandei pauses. “She should arrive shortly.”

Daenerys takes that as her cue to enter. She whirls around the pillar and strides towards the table, putting on her most confident expression. “I just finished a meeting with your father and mother in regards to our betrothal.”

Sansa’s expression is cool. “Good. I was just figuring out the logistics myself.” She gestures for her to sit, and Daenerys glances at Missandei who shakes her head and slips off to give them space. 

Daenerys turns her gaze back on Sansa, admiring how her hair glows from the light of the fireplaces at her back, the lines of her pretty features, the slope of her nose, the curve of her jaw. Sansa glances up to catch Daenerys staring, and the latter feels heat creep up her neck. She doesn’t look away. “It’s strange. You’re actually serious about marrying me.”

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t.” Sansa looks over various letters and contracts. “Of course, betrothals in Westeros are not set in stone, as they are usually just verbal agreements. To consider a marriage legal, the couple would have to c-consummate.” Sansa chokes on the last word.

Daenerys tilts her head. She watches Sansa going as dark as the wine they drank last night. “Have you not consummated a marriage before?”

Sansa’s fingers clench. “I have never married before!”

“Really? A woman your age?” Daenerys eyes her. “You should have been married three times over.”

“Were you?” Sansa shoots back, and when silence descends between them like a great distance, she almost looks like she regrets asking.

“I was married once.” Daenerys’ tone could frost windows. “It ended when he died.”

Sansa shifts upright, studying her. After a long moment, she says, “I’m sorry.” 

“You should be,” Daenerys snaps as the two of them stare at each other. “So...this is going to be a long marriage, won’t it?”

Sansa sighs. “Just look at these documents and let me know if you want to make any changes or additions.”

She and Daenerys spend the next couple of hours going over all the legal documentation with Sansa sneaking occasional glances.

“What?” Daenerys prompts after the third time. 

Sansa doesn’t look away. “Your mouth is very pretty.”

“You’re marrying me soon, and that’s the thing you recognize?” Daenerys frowns. “Why are you looking at my mouth of all things?

“Am I not allowed to look at my betrothed?”

“It’s more a question of why you were staring there? Thinking about how I’m going to use it in the next few days?”

Sansa pulls away, shooting her a look. “You’re lewd.”

“And you are a pervert.”

“I’m not—I’m not that big of a pervert.” Sansa flushes. “I mean I’m not one!”

“At least, you’re honest about it,” Daenerys remarks dryly. She smiles, resting her chin upon her intertwined fingers. “It’s good to see you have a personality behind all that frost, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa’s upper lip lifts up in what looks like a snarl. “Are you done? We need to finish.”

Daenerys sighs and finishes marking all the spots where she would sign on the contract. She throws down her quill and runs her hands through her hair, studying Sansa who shakes out her hand. Something occurs to her. “When we officially exchanges vows, are you going to take my name?”

Sansa looks at her. “I’m still a Stark.”

Daenerys thinks about what she could say but wisely, reluctantly, chooses not to press her. She stands, pushing back her chair. “It looks like we are done here unless you have something else to add.”

“No, I will run the contract over with my father and your advisors. Once approved, we will sign it at the ceremony.”

“Ah.” Daenerys fidgets on the spot. “Would you like to join me for a private dinner then?”

Sansa narrows her eyes. “Why?”

“To get to know each other better.” Daenerys raises an eyebrow. “And also, because we are going to be wives soon?”

Sansa’s eyes flicker. “I will consider it.” She stands, gathering the papers in a thick sheaf. “I will see you later.” She walks around the table but stops when Daenerys holds a hand to her chest. “Yes?”

Daenerys watches Sansa before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. Sansa leans back with an odd expression on her face. “See you shortly.”

Sansa gives her another strange look before quickly striding out the doors. Daenerys watches her leave and sighs. Wives are so difficult.

She looks for Missandei but could not find her anywhere. Her friend must have slipped out sometime during the long hours of signing. Daenerys exits the great hall, huffing, when she turns and bumps into the chest of someone taller than her.

“My apologies. I—“ Daenerys looks up into the sad eyes of Jon Snow.

“I have been looking for you,” he admits, quietly. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

She ends up touring the ground again, ending in a trek around the massive ramparts, Jon Snow silent at her side. Daenerys glances at him. “Jon—”

Jon shakes his head. “Why did you even bother choosing me if you were going to decide otherwise?”

Daenerys winces. “It wasn’t exactly planned.” 

“Of course not,” Jon snorts. “Sansa is an expert at making you feel like it was your idea.”

Daenerys whips her face towards him. “What do you mean?”

He shakes his head. “You can ask for yourself.” He faces her, hands in his pockets, looking very small despite his tall frame. “Did you even care for me? Or was Sansa so persuasive that she changed your mind in a single night?”

“Jon.” Daenerys grabs his chin, pushing it up to look at her. “This isn’t you.”

“And what would you know of me? It has only been a handful of days,” Jon mutters.

“I can tell you’re a better man than how you’re acting, even if it’s only been a couple of days, and in another time and place, you would have been the one I chose. Maybe we would have had a happier fate together than we do now, but this is not that story. This is not that ending.”

Jon goes silent, brows furrowed, and Daenerys lets go. They keep walking until they head back to the eastern gate, and Jon guides them up a staircase onto the ramparts.

Daenerys sighs, looking out over the top of Winterfell, at the cozy houses huddled together and the forest that stretches forever like an ocean. “I will never get sick of this view.” The sun is already touching down into the horizon, spilling a line of orange and yellow light behind it. She glances back at her companion who makes his way to his side, still frowning.

Jon stares at his feet. “What do you like about her?”

Daenerys leans against the parapet, eyes faraway. She thinks about the feral glint in Sansa’s eyes when the light strikes them just right, the long, lean lines of her body, the sharpness in her features. “She’s like wildfire. I can’t describe it better than that, but she feels like fire I can’t control yet.”

Jon looks at her. “Aren’t I wild?”

Daenerys laughs. “Like a newborn pup.” She turns to face him. “You’re a gentle, decent man. You’re a good man.” She puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “And you are a better person than I deserve. I can tell that much from the short time I have known you.”

“Thank you.” Jon goes silent before looking at her, smiling softly. “In that case, perhaps, you do deserve Sansa.”

Daenerys kicks him in the shin. “I have more dignity than to ask you to retract your words.” 

Jon hops on one foot awkwardly, rubbing his shin. “Retract the truth?” He ducks, laughing, when Daenerys growls and throws a handful of snow at him. They spend the next half hour hurling snow at one another until Daenerys’ stomach growls, and she proclaims she needs to tactically retreat to refuel. Jon just grins and throws another snowball in her face when she’s not looking.

Daenerys stomps her way to the keep, too hungry to chase a fleeing Jon, brushing snow off of her cloak as it melts in the warmth of the surrounding fireplaces. She stops a cook—a chubby, smiling woman—to inquire about food, and the cook lets her know that dinner has already been delivered to her chamber. Daenerys sprints up the stairs at the news, bursting into her room only to pause at the sight of Sansa sitting at the table before her, two bowls of steaming stew in front of her with a pair of wax candles burning between them.

Sansa cocks her head. “What kept you?”

Daenerys stares. “I apologize. I didn’t know you were waiting.” 

Sansa lifts a silver spoon by her side, dipping it slowly in her bowl. “You invited me.”

Daenerys has nothing to say. She pulls off of her dripping cloak and drapes it on a wooden chest by the fireplace in her room. Sansa watches, her gaze following Daenerys’ movements sharply as the latter makes her way to the table. 

The dinner conversation is non-existent.

Sansa silently polishes off the food in her bowl while Daenerys is still guessing what is in hers. She glances up to see Sansa studying her, almost tracing her with her eyes. “Your brother told me something interesting about you. Jon said that you had a gift for making people feel as if their ideas are theirs.” She stirs her stew, keeping her tone light and casual. “Is that what happened with me?”

Sansa’s face gives nothing away. “You mean, my half-brother.” She leans back, keeping that neutral expression. “You did not give me the impression that you would be easy to manipulate.”

“So, you’ve tried?”

Sansa shrugs. “What power do I have over a queen of her own destiny?”

Sansa never gives straight answers. Daenerys feels her expression harden. “You will do well to remember that in the presence of someone with an invading army and three dragons to command.”

Sansa laughs, a short bark. “Do you truly believe that scares me? That anything scares me anymore?”

Daenerys peers closer at Sansa, at the lack of fear in the flat expression on her face. After a long minute, she sits back in her seat, puzzled. What has Sansa gone through that the threat of burning alive by dragonfire has no effect? What causes a woman to achieve such apathy?

Sansa tilts her head. “Are you satisfied?”

Daenerys exhales slowly. “You are an impossible woman to know, Sansa Stark.” 

“I try,” Sansa remarks, dryly. She leans over to take the final spoonful of her stew, pausing and looking up when Daenerys frowns at her. “It is considered rude here to stare.”

Daenerys snorts. “It apparently was not for all the times you did it.” She ignores Sansa’s sharp glare, leaning forward on her elbows. “Why did you come?”

“I told you. You invited m—”

“Why did you accept?”

Sansa straightens up, pulling her clock closer to her as she peers at Daenerys. “Am I not allowed to know my future bride?”

“What do you really need to know other than this marriage alliance will get you out of the one you had with the Baratheons?” Daenerys scoffs. She pushes away her bowl and rises. “I tire. If you are finished, Lady Sansa, I am going to retire to my bed.” 

Sansa watches her. She slowly rises. “You are having second thoughts?”

“I am having first thoughts!” Daenerys throws up her hands. “What were you thinking when you said yes?”

“What were you thinking when you asked?” Sansa says, quietly. She tosses her long hair back, looking uneasy, a slight crack in her demeanour. “Is it wrong of me to want to be married to you?”

Daenerys strides over. “It is wrong when you don’t tell me why.” She steps up against Sansa, who turns her face away, her breathing quickening. “What agenda do you have with me?”

“Lady Targaryen, I know not what you speak.” Sansa still doesn’t make eye contact. “I am merely a simple woman who wishes to marry you and is blessed to do so.”

“Really? Is that all you want?” Daenerys places a hand on Sansa’s hip and runs it up, tracing the side hem of her dress as Sansa’s breathing hitches. “Are you sure there’s nothing more you desire of me?” She leans in, taunting, challenging, as Sansa finally turns to meet her gaze, and Daenerys loses the next words in her throat.

In the nearby candlelight, Sansa’s eyes glow, black pupils blossomed into dark discs, and she grabs the front of Daenerys’ front, growling in a way that startles the queen. Daenerys shoves her away more on instinct than anything else, and in a heartbeat when Daenerys realizes what she’s done, when they stare at each other and Sansa’s expression shifts slightly, the mood breaks. Sansa smooths away the front of her dress with a stoniness that makes the dragon queen want to torch a city. 

“You are correct. It is late, and I should leave you to sleep.” Sansa inclines her head and tries to slip out the door. Daenerys catches her, grabbing her by the wrist, and Sansa hisses.

“You are not running away.” Daenerys tightens her grip. “You cannot run away in a marriage, and I will not let you flee like a coward. If you have something to state, say it to my—“

Sansa grabs her, yanks her face to hers, fingers tangling messily in Daenerys’ hair. Daenerys bangs her nose so hard against Sansa’s that it aches, but Sansa pulls away as quickly as she came in.

Sansa pulls herself to her full height, composing her expression. “Is that enough of a statement for you?”

When Daenerys nods, voiceless, Sansa slowly turns away, keeping her eyes on Daenerys’, and walks down the hallway like a queen, like a conqueror.

Daenerys slides down the wall of her room, watching Sansa climb a staircase until she disappears from sight. She stares at nothing at particular, and it’s not until someone shakes her shoulder that she wakes from her stupor, blinking as if from a dream. She turns to look at them.

Jorah stoops besides her, giving her an odd look. “Are you all right, my lady?”

Daenerys laughs, breathless. “I don’t even know.”


	3. The Gift Outright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys gets invited out by Robb and Sansa to different parts of Winterfell. Of course, it is not for the same reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to Halifax for taking the time to betaread and leave the comments that help me improve.

Jorah sits at her table after Sansa leaves, listing off the things he learned on his fingers. “One, in regards to your reception of your betrothal to the eldest Stark daughter, some in the household support it, some think it a ruse. The majority are more concerned with gossiping about your preferences than any political outcome as well as how your wedding night will turn out. Two, the raven sent by Ned Stark is expected to arrive at King’s Landing within two or three days, provided that the bird does not rest. If it does, it make take longer. We should await the king’s answer before moving to avoid any unnecessary incidents.”

Daenerys nods, exchanging glances with Missandei who leans against a wall and shakes her head.

“Three,” Jorah continues, staring hard at Daenerys, “there have been rumours from the southern lords of sightings of a dragon flying around the hillsides and eating their sheep.”

Daenerys examines her fingers and nails. “Hmm...tragic.” 

“Daenerys,” Jorah studies her, “did you let Drogon go off freely?”

“He is his own intelligent creature. Besides, he cannot stay around Winterfell all the time when it is so cold and very little for him to eat.” 

MIssandei gently breaks in. “I hear the Stark men sometimes hold hunting parties, so they may be able to lead you to the location of some stags or deer. It would be better to have Drogon close by, would it not?”

Jorah goes silent, eyes flicking between the two, “Fourth, Robb Stark asked me to pass along a message for you to meet him at the stables shortly after breakfast tomorrow and to bring warm clothing.”

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up. “Why?”

“That is something you will have to ask yourself,” Jorah pulls out a fresh parchment from a hanging satchel on his belt. “Now, in regards to updating Grey Worm and the others at Dragonstone about the events here…”

Her advisors and her go back and forth about how to maneuver her army until the moon is high in the sky, and Daenerys excuses them from her room. She goes to bed wondering what is it Robb Stark has in mind for her, and whether it would be something beneficial.

She falls asleep still uncertain.

\--

When she comes down to the stables--a gigantic building that could house the guards and household of Winterfell alone--Robb Stark stands at the entrance with a handsome woollen jacket embroidered with a grey wolf that he tosses gently around her shoulders. “Thank you for gracing me today with your time. I thought it would be good for us to get to know each other as family while the wedding is being planned.”

Daenerys eyes him. “What did you have in mind?”

Robb grins. “Horseback riding. I hear you’re quite skilled.”

Daenerys perks, composing her expression to look more contemplative. “I may have some experience. Will you show me them?”

They head out of the hunter’s gate on beautiful, short geldings with thick, winter coats, spotted with black and white patches across their muzzle and heavy fur across their legs. They only span 14-15 hands tall, and even Daenerys stands taller than her mount though barely. Robb leads her northward on a well-worn path, snow packed down with boot prints and outlines of horses’ hooves across its surface. He keeps an easy pace to warm up the horses as Daenerys glances at the rise of trees around them, a thick forest of pine that seem to stretch on forever.

Eventually, they reach a wide swath of flatland blanketed in a thick layer of white. Daenerys is fairly certain that if she fell off of her horse, she would have clamber back up through waist-high snow. Robb stops just ahead of her. “These are the snow plains just north of Winterfell. Even in the summer and spring, they never thaw, but they make great training grounds for building our horses’ endurance and strength.”

“What kind are these? I have never seen anything with such a stocky body.” Daenerys pats down her gelding’s mane, amazed at the fuzz that covers every inch of her mount’s body. “Back where I come from, the horses were just as short, but they were also much leaner and with not quite so much hair.” 

“These are for when we are travelling further north. We have taller, leaner mounts that we take for our hunts, but for moving over snowy terrain, these shorter ones are more hardy.” Robb grins. “Perhaps, next time, I can show you the other ones.” He eyes her as she pulls up beside him. “You handle him well.”

“I have some experience with horses. But you already knew that.” Daenerys looks ahead at the mountains that stretches before them like the broken edge of blue glass. “I noticed that you didn’t pick stallions.”

“I had thought it prudent for the first ride to pick gentler horses until after your wedding to my sister.” Robb inclines his head. “It would not do to have a stallion toss off my sister’s betrothed and break her neck.”

Daenerys snorts. “You give the horse too much credit.” 

Robb smiles. “Forgive me. I will pick a more aggressive one for you next time.” 

They continue on across the plains as the snow rides higher, the horses plowing ahead like a machine. It’s only when Daenerys is nearly hip-height in snow that Robb stops, pointing out a crystal blue lake just a few hundred metres beyond them, the mountain behind it covered thickly in trees. “In the coldest of winters, the lake freezes over, and those who are brave enough venture across to fish for the schools swimming just under.” He turns, smiling. “But I fear the snow may be too deep for us to get a closer look.” He clicks his tongue, and the gelding turns around, dutifully pushing another path back to the main trail to Winterfell. 

Daenerys follows, breathing in the chill of the winter air, the stark blue colour of the sky, and the sharp scent of pine. She briefly wonders if Sansa would enjoy a ride out here with her before she notices Robb looking back at her.

Robb slackens his horse’s pace to a walk as she catches up. “Do you know,” he begins, casually, looking straight ahead, “that there are rumours in the keep that you plan to bed my sister so hard, the bedposts will break?”

Daenerys pauses. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

He chokes. Daenerys lets him regain his breath before she continues. “I am certain I am not the only person who would like to do so.”

“No, but you are the one that is actually going to succeed.” Robb’s horse whinnies, side-stepping. “So, I thought it would be of mutual benefit to talk beforehand.”

Daenerys squints at him. “I do not recall having a similar talk when you thought I would marry your brother.”

“That is different. Jon can take of himself.”

“And your sister can’t?” 

Robb shakes his head. “It’s not that she cannot, but Sansa…” He stares into the distance, going silent, contemplative. The lines around his mouth deepen. “Sansa hasn’t been the same since she returned from King’s Landing last summer. She’s like...like—“ He struggles for words.

“Like a broken mirror pieced together,” Daenerys offers, and Robb looks up. 

He nods. “Aye. Like a broken mirror.” He stops and looks out into the far-off mountains, wind ruffling his hair. “Do you plan to fix her?”

Daenerys pauses. “No.” He whips around, startled, and she continues. “I won’t fix Sansa. I can’t fix Sansa. Only she can fix herself. I can only be there to help her up when she falls.”

He looks at her with a new light in his eyes, pulling his steed close but keeping a respectable distance. “Well-said, Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name.” He studies her. “You might be good for her yet.” 

“The bigger question is whether she will be good for me.” Daenerys turns her horse around before Robb can reply. “Would you care for a race back?”

Robb wins by a nose due his great experience on the terrain, but Daenerys makes it a hard-earned victory with how close she presses on his horse’s heels. Daenerys’ gelding stomps, snorting huge plumes of steam from its nostrils as she watches Robb dismount his own, laughing. “I nearly won.”

Robb holds out a hand to help her down. “Lady Targaryen, sometimes, you will have to concede when the other person has won, even if you are the real victor.” He smiles fondly. “Marriage advice my father gave me long ago.”

“Duly noted,” she remarks, dryly, as she steps down from the stirrup, holding onto Robb’s outstretched hand for support. Her boots slip on a patch of ice on the ground, and she slams into Robb, who catches her. He doesn’t even stagger backwards.

“Are you all right?”

Daenerys scowls. “Yes, there was just—” Something on the back of her neck stiffens, and she whips about to see Sansa standing at the head of the stables, eyes trained on Daenerys and Robb. Daenerys quickly straightens up, pushing herself away. “Sansa.”

“I was coming to find you.” Sansa’s tone is quiet, piercing like a sharp icicle ready to fall. “I did not expect to find you in a compromising position, however.”

Robb reaches out. “Sansa, please—“

Sansa snaps, “Robb, you already have your woman, or is one not enough?”

“I slipped. He caught me. That is all.” Daenerys frowns at Sansa, her shadow cast long across the stable floor from the sun outside. “Why are you behaving this way?”

Robb holds out his hands, tone softening. “We just went horseback riding. There is nothing else.”

Sansa stares, her face in shadows as the sun brightens her outline in the stable doorway. She shifts slightly, turning to Daenerys. “I have been called by Mother to show you to the flower beds.”

“Plants grow this far north?” Daenerys arches an eyebrow. She approaches Sansa, only to look back at Robb who shakes his head slightly. “Thank you for the morning ride.”

Daenerys can feel Sansa bristle from the doorway, barely keeping from snarling. She keeps her steps steady as she nears, and Sansa turns, waiting until Daenerys walks past to join her side by side. She doesn’t miss how Sansa slips an arm around Daenerys’ shoulders while glaring over her own.

“What are you doing?” Daenerys moves away from Sansa’s arm. She slightly regrets it when it falls from her. “Your brother was merely being kind.”

Sansa tenses her jaw, staring straight ahead. “Wouldn’t you agree, conqueror of Essos, that there are times when you must absolutely defend what is yours?”

Daenerys studies. “Depends on if it is worth it to defend it.”

Sansa’s jaw grows tighter. “It is.” She doesn’t say anymore until they reach a great house of glass. It shimmers with a blue sheen to its walls, held together by a white frame in a sharp arch, wide enough to take up the courtyard.

Daenerys stares before following Sansa in. She’s hit with the warmth inside like a breath from Drogon. Her coat feels too hot and heavy, and Daenerys sheds it as she watches Sansa remove her own. “What is this?”

“Our glass gardens where we grow fruits and vegetables all year round. We also cultivate the only winter roses in the land.” Sansa reaches out to hold a blue rose the colour of water under a thick layer of ice. “No other flower is so rare nor precious.”

Daenerys studies the nearby line of flowers. “How do roses grow up north?”

“Water from the hot springs below is piped through the walls to warm them, and, inside, it always feels like the hottest day of summer.” Sansa lets go and slowly walks between two rows of flowers, hips swinging in an almost lazy manner.

Daenerys blinks, dragging her gaze back up to the back of Sansa’s head. She follows her down the aisle. 

Sansa leads them through into a tunnel of arching roses of pink and red shades whose petals feel like silk when Daenerys touches them. At last, Sansa stops before a marble statue of a young woman who looks remarkably like the youngest Stark sister, staring into the distance with a fierce expression. The plaque at its base simply reads, “For Lyanna.” 

Daenerys tilts her head, studying the statue as Sansa pauses, waiting, but not looking at her. “Lyanna Stark? Is that the same one my brother took?”

Sansa doesn’t say anything before she inclines her head slightly.

“I’m sorry.” Daenerys feels strange apologizing on behalf of a brother she never met. “As the last Targaryen, I apologize for what happened to your House.”

Sansa glances sidelong at her, shoulders loosening partially before continuing ahead. She continues on through another tunnel until they reach a wooden bench with stems of winter roses curling over its top, and she sits. After a pause, Daenerys seats herself besides Sansa, and the latter doesn’t react. Just when Daenerys concludes that this is the most silent tour of anything she’s ever had, Sansa speaks.

“My mother said that you start being a ruler, a queen, when you are first able to govern yourself.” Sansa brushes her fingers over a winter rose hanging above her shoulder. “I have always held that counsel to heart.”

Daenerys studies her, her relaxed posture, despite being within arm’s length. “Words of a wise woman.”

Sansa smiles, turning towards her, and Daenerys is taken off guard by the fact that Sansa actually looks happy. It’s a beautiful expression. “l’ll admit that I have always been the favourite daughter and, thus, spoiled for my mother’s affections, but it does not mean the pressure of her expectations has lessened.”

“I wouldn’t know. I never had a mother to have expectations of me.”

Sansa’s expression shifts, and her voice grows low, reconciliatory. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For my father’s part in the rebellion that caused your House to—I’m sorry.”

Daenerys laces her fingers together, staring ahead at nothing in particular. “All my life, I have been wandering. I have never known a castle or keep to call my own, despite being the daughter of the former king.” She glances down at her hands, calloused palms beneath white sheepskin. “You must think me an improper queen. I know nothing of the courts and the castles of Westeros. All I know of is how to conquer and how to hurt people that have hurt me first—the brutal life of the Dothraki, the endless sands of deserts where I thought I would die.“ Daenerys looks away at a slender fruit tree just starting to tower over her. “Do I blame your father? No, what he did was a necessity of war. But I do not know how to give you what you want. I only know that it is my destiny to get to the Iron Throne.”

She hears a hum beside her and turns to see Sansa studying her with something thoughtful in her eyes. “What is it?”

“You are not the woman I thought you were.” Sansa leans forwards, hair spilling over one shoulder like a cascade of fire, of blood. Her eyes seem to glow like ice. “So, Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name and Last of Her House, why do you want the throne?”

Daenerys stirs, uneasy. “It is my birthright—“

“No one will contest that, but what meaning does it have to you? What do you hope to get from a seat stained by blood and betrayal? That many have gone insane to gain?” Sansa crosses one leg over the other, and Daenerys’ eyes follow the motion. “I have seen the Iron Throne myself, and it is greater and more terrible than anyone can imagine.”

Daenerys hardens her expression. “You will not convince me to give up chase of my birthright, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa shrugs, lightly, gracefully. “I would be foolish to try, Lady Targaryen. I only ask as your prospective wife, what next after you claim the Iron Throne?”

Daenerys doesn’t have an answer. When the silence grows too heavy, too deep, it is Sansa who breaks it with a slight brush of something off of her immaculate dress. “We should return for supper soon. Mother only wanted me to give you a short tour of our gardens to warm you to Winterfell, but I fear we have overstayed.” She stands as Daenerys follows, still silent. Sansa walks through yet another arch of plants with a lattice built above the walkway to support them. Grapes heavy with sweetness dangle just above Daenerys who keeps her gaze on Sansa’s steps, frowning. 

They almost near the glass doors when Daenerys stops and looks around. She keeps her tone casual. “Why is it that Winterfell is unusually temperate for a castle surrounded by snow. I have noticed that even the grey stone of the keep feels warm to the touch. Is it the hot springs?”

Sansa turns around. “Yes. Because of them, it fares better in the winter than other castles of the North.” She glances at Daenerys. “Isn’t it fascinating how something so cold at first glance can be so warm underneath?”

Daenerys gazes around the glass ceiling overhead, the long lines of luxurious greenery that thrive underneath. When she glances back to the door, she finds Sansa watching her, waiting, her expression almost anxious. “I agree completely.”

Daenerys steps out into the snow and nearly jumps at the touch of something warm on her wrist. She looks down to see Sansa’s hand brushing her skin, eyes on her face before it withdraws and Sansa slips on her glove. “To supper, Lady Targaryen. You look famished.”

“Daenerys.”

Sansa’s eyebrows lift.

“If you are to wed me, call me by my name, not my title.” Daenerys raises her eyes, challenging.

Sansa nods once, inclining her head. “Daenerys.” The sounds comes out smooth like honey poured slowly, and Daenerys feels something flutter inside her belly. “My betrothed.”

The flutter spikes, and Daenerys grabs Sansa, kissing her as Sansa pushes into her, moaning slightly, and Daenerys lets go, shocked.

Sansa pants, a tinge of rose on her cheeks. Her eyes darken. “Are you satisfied?”

Daenerys steps forward and presses a kiss to Sansa’s cheek. “Not until our wedding night.” She strides forwards, and Sansa quickly catches up. 

Her eyes catch on the embroidered grey wolf on Daenerys’ riding jacket, and her words tumble out a little breathless. Sansa touches the patch of elaborate needlework on Daenerys’ shoulder. “That wolf looks good on you.”

“Thank you. I look forward to having more wolves on me.” Daenerys glances at Sansa, who grins, eyeteeth glinting in the sunlight.

Their fingers brush against one another during the walk back, as if testing, challenging each other. They don’t quite touch.


	4. Stopping by Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys grows closer to the Stark family as she joins them on a hunt, only to find a wall between her and Sansa when she finds that Sansa isn't tell her the complete truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much, much thanks to Halifax as a betareader, sounding board, and editor all in one. Could not make this story with her.
> 
> (Also, I wrote an essay about hunting deer. You're welcome.)

When Daenerys hears from Ned at breakfast the next day there will be a hunting party leaving, she asks to come.

Ned directs her when and where to meet the party after he overcomes his surprise. Sansa watches her from further down the table, eyebrows furrowing, as Jon and Robb chatter excitedly about having her join. 

Catelyn narrows her eyes and asks why Daenerys wishes to come.

Daenerys shrugs. “Is it not wise of me to understand the customs of the North, considering our families will join soon?” She fails to mention that it would be a benefit to figure out where deer live nearby, so she can keep Drogon close to Winterfell.

Catelyn scowls, but she doesn’t respond.

Jorah insists on coming when she returns to her room to inform her advisors. Missandei shakes her head and lays a calming hand on his arm. “You worry too much. The Starks are honourable men. They will take care of her during the trip. 

Reluctantly, Jorah backs down but not before he watches Missandei wrap Daenerys up like a present. He buckles a blade onto her belt himself in case she enters combat without him. Daenerys weathers his tutting with a roll of her eyes, and Missandei sends her off with a sympathetic look.

Robb smiles as Daenerys arrives at the Hunter’s Gate where a cluster of men and horses wait, chatting and joking with one another. Gigantic, shaggy dogs that resemble the stocky horses she rode yesterday snuffle at the men’s pockets and their hands. One rears up and places his front paws on one man’s shoulders, licking his face, a few inches taller than his handler. The youngest Stark girl hangs around her brothers, clearly begging to be allowed to join based on her expression.

Robb wades through the crowd with Jon and Bran behind him. He gestures to a saddled stallion with thin limbs and a broad, powerful chest. “As I promised.”

“We’ll be heading close to the wolfswood to find some deer or boar, since your wedding feast is in a couple of days.” Jon pulls his horse up to hers. He grins. “Are you sure you can keep up with our speed?”

Daenerys snorts. “I am certain I can keep up with you at the very least. Please remind me. How fast does ‘slow and awkward’ go?”

The men around them burst into laughter, and Robb jabs a good-natured elbow into Jon’s side. “She’s got you there! You may be a talented swordsman, but you are a terrible rider.”

Jon puffs up his chest. “We do what we must to make you look better as the upcoming Lord of Winterfell, Robb.”

Ned approaches them, having organized the hunters into their roles. “This will primarily be your hunt, Robb. I will watch to see how you lead.”

Robb opens his mouth to respond but closes it again. He stares at the gate. Daenerys turns to follow his gaze, the chatter hushing around them. She sees a familiar Stark daughter riding towards them, red hair glowing from the sun.

Sansa arrives on a pretty mare, a white hunting cloak thrown over a grey riding outfit. The men stare, surprised. “Is it too late to join?”

Bran furrows his brows while Robb looks nervous, and Jon’s face darkens. Ned pulls his stallion over to his eldest daughter. He eyes her get-up, complete with a hunting bow slung over her shoulder. “I did not realize you had an interest in hunting.”

“I find that given enough incentive, one can develop an interest in anything.” Sansa glances at Daenerys. 

A man the others called Theon coughs loudly into his elbow. “Girls!”

Arya throws up her hands. “That’s not fair! She doesn’t even like hunting! She’s just coming to watch her—“

Sansa cuts in. “Arya, a woman is allowed to have a change of heart, is she not?”

Arya grumbles, “Hunting isn’t the only thing you had a change of heart about.” She ducks the Sansa’s kick and smoothly vaults onto the last horse without a rider. “Father, please let me join.”

Ned sighs, “Your mother will kill me if something should happen to all of us.”

“That’s why she still has Rickon at the castle,” Arya declares happily, ushering her mount forward to the front. “And anyway, Father, dying in combat would still be less painful than dying to Mother.”

Ned concedes her point with an incline of his head. He instructs Arya on how to behave during a hunt when Daenerys hears someone come up to her, and she turns. Sansa stops within arm’s reach. Her mare whinnies, dithering nervously.

“Good morning, Lady Stark,” Daenerys teases.

Sansa holds her head slightly higher. “And a fair morrow to you, Lady Targaryen, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons—“

“If you are trying to say I have too many titles, you made your point.” Daenerys will grow old before Sansa gets through them all.

Sansa smiles slightly. “Daenerys.”

“Better.” Daenerys hears the shuffle of horses and glances over to see the hunting party gathering, ready to set out. “Shall we join them?”

Robb leads in the front with Jon, Bran, and Theon close behind him. Sansa rides to the right of Daenerys. She doesn’t say anything but keeps her gaze on Daenerys’ face as the queen scans the clear skies and the thick trees around them.

Ned rides on Daenerys’ other side, explaining the methods of the hunt. “In the winter, the deer tend to concentrate in areas that offer the most shelter from storms, like clusters of trees that allow snow walls to build up, protecting them from the wind. However, when the snow grows high, about two feet, they tend to stick to previously broken trails. That is where we set up for them.”

Daenerys nods, approving. “You trap them in their habits. I assume you are very familiar with the wolfswood?”

Jon cuts in, having slowed his pace to listen. “Our family hunts in the area all the time. Jory, the captain of our household guards, took Robb, Bran, and I fishing for trout in a stream nearby.” He squeezes his legs in excitement. His horse tosses his head, and Jon frowns, trying to rein him in.

“Be careful, Jon. That horse could throw you off if you aren’t more watchful.” Ned turns to her to continue. “We use the woods not only for food but shelter.” He points to the bows strapped across some of the hunters’ backs as well as the long spears others wear. “In the south, hunting is more of a sport, whether the meat is needed or not. It is customarily there for the leader of the party to dismount and finish off the animal with a sword or spear. However, if one is careless during this part, they may end up being the one finished instead. I have heard of many foolish lords gored in the belly by the boars they try to take.”

Daenerys studies the hunters ahead of her, men in thick clothing designed to protect them from such a fate. “How is it different here?”

Ned inclines his head. “We respect the animal, not chase it down for fun and prolong its suffering. The bows make quick work if one’s shot is true and keeps the hunter at a safe distance. The spears are if we need to finish the animal on foot and are only used as a last resort.”

“I don’t imagine your customs are taken too well by the southern lords.” 

Ned shakes his head. “They say our method is cowardly. We call theirs cruel.” He smiles, tightly. “It is a minor disagreement.”

“Of course. You have bigger things to occupy your mind.” Daenerys makes a mental note to send Drogon down south again to eat more of their sheep. “I noticed that you were speaking to each of the hunters alone. Why is that?”

“Each member of the party has a specific role and placement when the time comes. Some will drive and trap the animal, some will wound it, some will kill it, and others will dress it. Hunting is much like a military expedition. To be the most efficient and successful, everyone has to be clear about what they are doing and why they are there.”

Arya slips in beside her father. “Except Sansa,” she mutters. “And Bran.”

“Arya,” Ned warns her as Sansa glares at her sister from behind.

Arya throws up her hands. “She’s literally been useless. All she’s been doing is looking at her—“ she points at Daenerys, “—the entire time. And all Bran does is read history books. If you wanted to know everything about us, you’d ask him, but, on hunts, he’s just dead weight.”

“Arya!” Sansa barks.

“Girls!” Ned cuts between the two. “If you cannot keep quiet to avoid scaring away the game, I will send you both back to the castle.”

The two sulk, and Daenerys stifles a laugh. She addresses the younger sister. “What will your part of the hunt be?”

Arya perks. “Robb says I’ll help him scare the deer to where our hunters are waiting. When I get more experience with the hunts, I can use a bow!”

Ned nods, approvingly. “Very wise of him.” He glances up as Robb holds out a hand to halt the progression. “It looks like we are here.”

Daenerys sidles up to the front to watch a slender, lean deer wander through the trees on its own, its crown of antlers barely wider than its ears as it looks about nervously.

Robb frowns. “It’s alone. That is strange. It should be with the other deer near the wolfswood.”

“Ah,” Ned says, softly. “It’s not fully grown. How tragic.”

Daenerys leans over. “What does that mean?”

“It means the spoils of hunt will taste sweeter for us at the cost of cutting that buck’s life shorter.” He studies it with regret. “He won’t have a chance to grow into what he could be.” Ned nods to Robb who slowly raises his hand, signalling the hunting party to go forward.

The men silently take their places to the side of the deer, disappearing into the woods left and right as the dogs strain at their leashes. At Robb’s signal, the handlers let go, and the dogs take off like lightning bolts, charging and baying at the stag who jumps up and takes off in the opposite direction. 

Robb glances at Daenerys. “Stay close by.” He charges with Arya howling at his side while the rest of them follow. Daenerys urges her stallion on, squinting at the bits of snow flying backwards from the lead riders. They zip around massive tree trunks, trampling frozen brush underfoot as her mount skillfully darts across uneven ground and large rocks. After ten minutes of hard riding, they find the stag heaving with its back against a solid cliff wall, the dogs snarling on one side and the hunters with their spears on the other. They circle around to watch, closer to the left side of the animal.

The stag backs away, tossing its head, desperate jets of steam erupting from its nostrils.

Jon pulls up beside her as Robb signals the other hunters to draw their bows. Out of the corner of her eye, Daenerys spots Sansa lifting her own bow off of her back. 

Jon glances sidelong at Daenerys. “This will be it.” He leans far too forward on his stallion, and it neighs angrily at the change in his weight. “You see, the hunters will try to take down the stag in one shot to give it the quickest death.” The horse steps forward, stomping the snow in anger. Jon frowns, pulling on the reins, and the horse nearly scraps him off its back by knocking him into a nearby tree trunk.

“Control your horse!” Daenerys reaches out to grab the reins, but the horse slips away, snorting. “You need to show it you’re the dominant one!”

“How?” Jon’s mount tries to knock him off by moving under a low tree branch, and he barely ducks in time. “This is enough!” He yanks hard on the reins, and the horse throws him.

Jon flies over his mount’s head, tumbling into the clearing, yelling. Ned and Robb shout while Bran and Arya try to ride to get him. The hunters shuffle to block the siblings from moving into the clearing, shaking their heads, despite Arya’s and Bran’s protests. The stag notices as Jon rolls to a stop, groaning. He lifts his head and freezes when it glares at him, head and antler lowering, the sharp tines of its crown glinting. The hunters draw their bows quickly, but the stag is already charging.

The stag bolts towards him as Jon tries to scramble away. The arrows from the hunters slam into the stag’s shoulders and flank. It doesn’t stop. A sudden sharp snap beside Daenerys sounds in the air, and the deer drops to its knees, sliding forward, an arrow through its sides just behind its front leg.

Daenerys turns around and spots Sansa relaxing, dropping her bow to her side. “It’s done for. I hit both of its lungs.”

Daenerys eyes the weapon in Sansa’s hand, the blank expression on her face. “You are a dangerous woman, Lady Stark.”

Jon slows down, looking behind as he retreats to the trees. The party watches the stag with a single breath when the buck bellows, a resonating sound of agony as it shoots forth, tail tucked down, and Jon dives to the side, narrowly avoiding being trampled. The dogs fly after it, snarling, but they don’t go far. The stag slows and staggers, a blood trail behind it a dark red like a thick line of rubies, before it collapses. It only makes it 100 yards.

Robb glances over to Ned, and Ned hops off of his horse to slowly approach the deer, waving the hunters in behind him. He pauses at where the arterial spray starts, examining the red trail. “Sansa, are you certain you hit the lungs? I don’t see any froth in the blood.”

Sansa frowns. “I thought I did.” She strides over to her father who points out several things along the trail.

Daenerys turns her attention to Robb beside her. “What happens now?” She watches as several men get off of horseback and approach the deer with heavy bags in tow.

Robb crosses his arms. “They will dress the deer to preserve the meat from spoilage as much as possible. The act requires as much skill as the hunting if not more to ensure the taste of the meat is intact.”

One of the men grabs a stick to poke the deer in the eye. When it doesn’t move, he gestures for the others to come in, and a group of them hang the deer from a nearby tree. Once strung up, they bury the blade in the buck’s belly and steadily slice upwards, the bright red of its entrails steaming upwards in the winter sun. Daenerys watches them in silence. “It doesn’t take long to die once something cuts into the chest, does it? I wonder if it is painful.”

Robb shakes his head. “I hope you never find out.” He sighs, brushing his hair back. “They may take a while, so if you would like to explore, there are some clearings around the area. Just make sure you are within eyesight and shouting distance of the party, since you never know what you might find in the woods.”

“I shall do that.” Daenerys glances ahead. The hunters gather around the carcass with large, carving knives that gleam silver in the sun, the dogs yipping excitedly as they’re tossed pieces of meat. “Excuse me, Lord Robb.”

Daenerys whirls her horse around, glancing about the party. She spots Sansa who somehow is arguing passionately with Arya with Ned trying to stop them. Close by, Bran and Robb step forward to help Jon catch his breath. Noting that she can congratulate her betrothed on her shot later, she turns down a side path through the thick trees.

She keeps the hunting party in sight, glancing back occasionally. Just past a large tree that leads into a clearing, the horse snorts and stops. It refuses to move forward, despite Daenerys’ soft pleading and later harsh tones. She peers further into the space ahead, and when she spots nothing there, she dismounts, muttering darkly at the horse. 

Daenerys crosses into the area, quiet and serene. She listens but save for the murmur of the hunting party behind her, it is silent. She shakes her head, wondering what has gotten into her stallion before spotting nearby bushes heavy with round, dark berries. Curious, she wades through the snow to take a closer look at them when something tells her to look to her side.

Just beyond the edge of the clearing, slinking through the thick underbrush, a wolf emerges, and Daenerys’ heartbeat jolts into her throat. She yanks out the knife at her belt and slowly step away, noting the huge head that dwarfs her own, the powerful set of shoulders that could clear the distance in two bounds before she could finish turning to run. The wolf steps forward, fur almost a reddish brown, and Daenerys prays to the Old Gods, the Seven, and anything else she can remember that she’ll survive the encounter. She thinks that should she win, she’d skin the wolf on the spot and hand the hide to her betrothed.

The wolf sniffs the air, tilting its head in a way that reminds her remarkably of Sansa. It approaches cautiously, curiously, as if trying not to startle her, and Daenerys steps back, wondering why the wolf is so weird. 

Daenerys lifts her blade, but the beast approaches anyway, steadily, with a gentle gaze. She finds her weapon hand falling to her side as the wolf reaches her, gliding forward to nuzzle her head under Daenerys’ unarmed one. Despite every line of reason in her head screaming at her to stab it and run away, Daenery sheathes the knife. There’s something about the wolf’s stare that says it won’t harm her.

The wolf waits, watching her patiently, and Daenerys squats down, reaching with both hands to scratch at its head as it closes its eyes, seeming to smile.

“You need to be careful.” Daenerys exhales as she scratches its ears. “Your trusting nature will get you killed by those less kind than I.” The wolf leans forward to lick her face, and Daenerys snorts. “You’re way too gentle for your own good.”

Sansa’s voice rings out in the clearing. “Daenerys!”

Daenerys turns on her heels, spotting a pale-faced Sansa standing where Daenerys left her mount. Sansa stares at the wolf, whose ears perk.

Daenerys grins and ruffles the wolf’s thick fur around its neck. “Good timing! I was just considering adding, ‘Tamer of Wolves,’ to my list of titles. What do you think?”

Sansa’s eyes flicker. “Get away.”

“Hmm? But I’m not in any danger.” Daenerys glances back to see Sansa with a strange expression, one hand to her chest, breathing shallowly. “Are you feeling well?” She scratches the wolf behind the ear, and Sansa twitches.

“Please, stop touching her.” 

Daenerys pauses as the wolf whines. “Do you know this animal?” 

“Lady!” Sansa cries, and the wolf stands. It jumps over Daenerys to trot its way to Sansa, sitting at her feet as its tail thump into the ground. Sansa runs her hands over the wolf’s face while muttering something low and under her breath. The wolf yips once with ears flattened back before turning and running off into the woods.

“So, she’s yours?” Daenerys watches the animal leave, frowning. “Why would you hide the fact that you’ve tamed a wolf?”

Sansa straightens, not meeting her eyes. “Forgive us, but we didn’t know how enduring an alliance with you would be at first. It is a Stark secret that our family has special bonds with direwolves.”

Daenerys’ frown deepens. Sansa still isn’t looking at her. “You’re hiding something.”

“Please. Not here.” Sansa breathes hard.

Daenerys pauses before stepping back and crossing her arms. “All right, but you will tell me one day. A marriage built on lies and secrets is not one that will last.”

“And is that what you truly want? Something that will?” Sansa glances at her sidelong. “I thought this was a marriage of alliance and convenience for you.”

“I won’t deny that was my original intention, but—“ Daenerys pauses as she realizes what she is saying. “—you’re correct. This is neither the time nor place for this discussion.”

Sansa peers at her but chooses not to press. They head back to the others in silence with Daenerys grabbing the reins of her stallion. Daenerys stands an arm’s length away, but she doesn’t reach out. Sansa glances over but say nothing each time. 

When they find the others, the men gather around the butchered deer, looking uneasy. Daenerys steps forward, glancing at their faces. “What is the matter?”

Robb shakes his head. “The men are being superstitious. The stag is the sigil of the Baratheons, and they are regretting slaying it.”

Arya points out, “The sigil of House Tully is a fish, and no one feels weird about eating one.”

Robb laughs, “Well-said.” He claps his hands to get the men’s attention and shouts a few commands that gets the group going, admonishing them for their unfounded fear. The men grumble as they haul over a wooden sled, heaving the deer carcass on before attaching the sled to a set of stocky horses. Robb waits for everyone to mount their steeds before glancing at his father and calling for the men to head back.

Daenerys rides close the end of the train, marking the area mentally for Drogon. She glances at Sansa riding close to her.

Sansa leans in slightly. “Are you well?”

“Of course. The hunt has been a very educational experience.” Daenerys looks ahead, her words precise. Sansa frowns.

“It wasn’t just educational.” Arya drops back from the other horses to join the conversation. She looks at her sister with newfound respect. “Sansa was the one who killed the stag.”

“What can I say? I am a woman of many surprising gifts.” Sansa watches Daenerys as she says this.

Arya scoffs, “No, you’ve just been practicing the bow like crazy to impress your betrothed.”

Sansa shoots her a sharp look, and Daenerys laughs. Daenerys smiles at Sansa. “Well, it worked.”

Ned glances back at them, looking proud. “Your shot was better than we thought. You hit it in the heart. It was a fast death for the deer.”

Sansa glances at Daenerys then away. “Thank you, Father. I tried to give innocent things the quick end they deserve.”

“And if they aren’t innocent?” Daenerys presses.

Sansa’s mouth twists to the side. “Then, I give them the death they’ve earned.”

Daenerys glances over, but she doesn’t ask. They ride to Winterfell in silence.

Once they reach the castle, the men congratulate each other by slapping one another on the back with some immediately hauling the deer to the kitchens. Others approach Daenerys, uncertain if back-slapping a queen is acceptable, before bowing and complimenting her riding. Daenerys replies politely to their good cheer before spotting Bran dismounting his horse. She heads straight for him.

Bran raises an eyebrow as she approaches. “Did you enjoy the hunt?”

“Yes, though I am disappointed that I did not see more wolves in the wolfswood.”

“They’re busy. Wolves mate in the winter.” Bran glances at Sansa sidelong. “Although we can all see that coming.”

Daenerys nods, drawing close and dropping her voice. “May we speak?”

“What about?” He glances between Daenerys and Sansa.

“I merely was interested in knowing more of your family’s history, and I heard you were the best one to ask.”

“Yes…” His eyes flick over to his sister. “I just don’t want Sansa to rip my...head off if I talk to you.”

Daenerys looks back at Sansa who is frowning at a distance. “I was thinking of asking your brother for a history lesson on the family. Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

The expression on Sansa’s face says she does before it vanishes into something cool and composed. “Of course. I shall see you later, Daenerys.”

Bran watches her go. “You will have to answer for that one later.”

Daenerys inclines her head. “When the time comes.” She offers her arm to him. “Lead on.”

Bran guides her to a courtyard housing a round tower with a stonework staircase winding around the outside. “This is our Library Tower, which contains all of the books of knowledge in Winterfell. If you wanted to understand the our connection with wolves, you would want to start there.” 

Daenerys places her foot on the staircase and starts climbing. “What is with you Starks and so many stairs?”

“It is expected with inheriting an ancient castle built ages ago,” Bran remarks, dryly. He leads her to a thick, oak door, and he shoves it open with his shoulder, the hinges groaning like a pained beast. “We don’t put as much care into the maintaining the towers as we should,” he grunts after pushing it open enough for him and Daenerys to squeeze through. Daenerys blinks at the sheer size of the room, lit up with lanterns strategically placed along the walls with floor-to-ceiling windows that line the room, bringing in the sunlight from outside.

A narrow second floor weaves along the edge of the room to the other, bookshelves of ancient oak on the ground and second floors filled with books. Heavy, long tables line the middle of the room with the ceiling carved in strange lines and painted in fading colours of white, brown, and teal that makes the pictures bulge out. Daenerys studies them, spotting bits and pieces of recognizable figures--a bearded man above the a series of waves, a beautiful woman in a robe blowing winds at a tiny figure. She spots a recurring figure that looks like an older Ned with a heavier beard and shaggier hair before an enormous wall of ice. 

“That’s Bran the Builder, the founder of House Stark.” Bran explains when he notices her looking. “He built the wall up north, Winterfell, and Storm’s End, or so the myth goes. Truthfully, it is more likely that a bunch of Starks named Bran helped build those.” He waves. “Like me.” 

“It is an exceptionally beautiful library, but I am uncertain where to find the answers I am looking for.”

Bran tilts his head in a way much like Sansa and the wolf. “You want to know the history of the Starks, correct? In particular, our connection with the dire wolves?” When Daenerys blinks at him, he shrugs, palms raised up. “I have strong intuition. You were acting strange when you returned. I am going to assume you ran into a wolf, and Sansa was there?” He shakes his head. “She hides more things than she needs to.” He hums. “Sansa’s never liked Jon much, but I find it interesting that when his life is in danger, she’ll still save him.” He glances back. “Like today.”

He saunters over to a shelf close to the middle and plucks a book from the bottom shelf. He hands her a tome of faded gold lettering on ancient leather. “This is a tale about the Warg King, whom the Starks defeated in battle thousands of years back. This will answer you if you look hard enough.” He glances at her meaningfully.

Daenerys sighs. “You couldn’t just tell me what it is about?”

Bran shakes his head. “Unfortunately not. Before you arrived, Father and the rest agreed to keep some things secret, and I am under obligation to keep my word. However, if you discover it on your own, that is out of my control.” He shows her to one of the table and pulls out a cushioned seat for her. “If you require more readings to understand our...history, please feel free to ask.”

He nods to her before leaving, pausing at the door. “For what it is worth, I think it is foolish to hide anything about our family to you when you will learn soon enough.” He exits the library, sealing the room shut behind him.

Daenerys sighs and looks at the tome in front of her, smelling faintly of old leather, and at the fading daylight outside the windows, wondering what Sansa is hiding. She picks up the tales about the Warg King and begins to read.


	5. Desert Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys delves deeper into the Starks’ secrets, finding answers she didn’t expect. She brings them up with Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all my thanks to my betareader Halifax whose feedback help guide the emotional experience of the story. Also, she helps check my spelling. Much thanks.

Neither Bran nor Sansa are at the keep when Daenerys returns, book in hand.

When pressed, the outside guards shrug, stating that Bran wandered off in the direction of the crypts and her betrothed was speaking with Catelyn. Daenerys pauses, opting for the lesser of the two evils and asks for directions to the Winterfell crypts. 

As she leaves, the guards shout after her to keep a watch out for the youngest Stark child. Rickon disappeared hours ago, and Catelyn is calling a castle-wide search.

Daenerys promises. She wanders through the courtyards until she reaches a gigantic ironwood door near the First Keep—a round, square building with gargoyles—and what the guards called the lichyard. The door sits ajar, as if something squeezed through, despite the weight of the old wood. 

Daenerys enters a room with a vaulting ceiling that stretches so far back that she can’t see the end. Farther down from her, on the side of one wall lies a narrow staircase that gapes like a wound. Braziers burning with lazy flames cast the tombs and statues set opposite one another in a warm, orange glow. It would almost feel welcoming, save for a strange chill in the air, a coldness that sinks in deeper than the one outside.

Daenerys pulls her cloak tighter around herself and pushes forward, head swivelling between the two walls lined with stone coffins. In front of her rise rows of granite pillars in pairs like silent sentinels. She mutters, “I’m starting to think that Bran isn’t here.”

She continues into the crypts, her footsteps echoing like the drumming at a dirge. Statues of lords stand with a film on them, some of their longswords almost rusted away to nothing. At their feet sit direwolves carved in granite, some resting, some on their feet. All of them reminds Daenerys of the wolf Sansa called Lady, and uneasiness roils in her gut.

Not all have statues or swords. Most were tombs with inscriptions at their base, save for two statues that seem out of place. Daenerys only cares for the replica she saw in the glass garden. She stops in front of a carving of a young, fierce woman—probably no older than Sansa but even more feral, more wild. “Lyanna Stark,” Daenerys exhales, looking up into the cold stone of the hard Stark eyes. “Everything you did haunts your family even now.”

A giggle sounds in the air, and Daenerys stares, wondering if the spirit of the dead Lyanna was laughing at her. She gets her answer when a moment later, a boy with red hair pops out from behind her statue. From his fierce expression and resemblance to Sansa, Daenerys concludes this must be Rickon Stark. 

She tilts her head. “You know your mother is looking for you.”

Rickon grins. “I know! We were playing hide-and-seek! I’ve been here for two hours!” 

“Really? Two hours in here?” That explains the castle-wide search. “I found you, so you have to go back now.” Daenerys frowns. 

Rickon shrugs, slipping around the statue and heading further into the crypts. “You found me, but you didn’t find Shaggydog!” He takes off towards the staircase while Daenerys curses and gives chase, wondering who or what was Shaggydog.

Honestly, children.

Rickon reaches the stairs and darts down, following a worn groove in the centre from the many centuries of visitors. Daenerys follows, finding a curving set of steps that leads down to the next level. The lights here from the braziers burn weaker as if not as often cared for. Her breath comes out in a plume of steam, surprising her with how cold it is. She grabs an abandoned torch lying on the ground and dips it into the nearest brazier, waiting for the wood to catch fire. When it does, she continues on, calling for the youngest Stark son.

“Where are you?” Her voice bounces back at her. “Rickon?” She pauses. “Shaggydog?”

The young boy emerges from a shadowed wall, scowling. “You’re so noisy.” He peers at her. “But pretty.”

Daenerys smiles. “I certainly hope your sister thinks so.”

He studies her. “Oh! You’re Sansa’s lady.”

Daenerys’ stomach flips over itself. “Not yet, but soon enough.”

Rickon looks about, having already lost interest. He glances over. “Can you keep a secret?”

“About what?”

“About my family.” He watches her, frowning. “Promise. Cross your heart and hope to die.”

Daenerys smiles. She makes the gesture over her chest.

Rickon nods, satisfied. He waves for her to follow him, and they delve deeper into the crypts, only the light of Daenerys’ torch illuminating their path along shadowed stone, the braziers no longer lit.

They reach the end of another floor, and Rickon goes down. Daenerys shivers and follows him, uneasiness creeping through her skin. They reach the third floor, and Daenerys feels the statues glaring at her, condemning her, wishing her out with the cold eyes of dead men, parts of their faces crumbled away. The shivers spikes into trembling, and the light from her torch skips erratically across the ground. She practically feels frost forming on her eyelashes, and she wonders why the boy in front skips forward as easily as he would above ground. 

The air grows sharper. It feels like there’s ice forming in her lungs, and Daenerys gasps like every breath is fire the further she goes. They reach the end of the floor, the broken and worn staircase disappearing into darkness. She freezes at the top step, despite Rickon’s impatient sounds.

Daenerys, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Conqueror of Essos, refuses to move any deeper into the Winterfell crypts.

Rickon frowns before he raises two fingers to his mouth and whistles, a bright, sharp sound that pierces her ears like an shot arrow in the silence of the tombs. Something further down the stairs answers, thumping upwards with wet, heavy pants, and Daenerys almost grabs Rickon and flees.

Rickon waves her back into the crypts, and out of the darkness into the light of her torch bounces a shaggy, black wolf even larger than Sansa’s.

Daenerys freezes when the wolf pauses, studying her with bright, green eyes, and Rickon grabs onto the thick ruff of its neck. “This is Shaggydog! We all have one, even Jon!” Rickon hugs his direwolf. “But Father and Mother said we had to make them go away when you were here.”

Daenerys glances at him sharply, keeping an eye on the wolf. “Why is that?”

Rickon holds a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret.” 

Daenerys grows weary of all the Stark secrets. 

“But I can tell you this. Sometimes, when I sleep, I dream I’m Shaggydog.” He scratches his wolf’s ears. “I hunt like he does.”

“You mean you think of being a wolf.”

Rickon frowns. “No, I am a wolf.”

Daenerys stares at him, something clicking in her mind when her thoughts are broken by Shaggydog’s growl.

Shaggydog tenses at something in the dark, fur rising slightly, and Daenerys is up at once, stepping in front of Rickon. She waves her torch, but the light only shows ancient stone stairs. She looks over her shoulder at Rickon, feeling something cold brush the back of her neck. “We should leave.”

They are silent as Shaggydog leads them out, pausing to sniff and huff at the ground once in a while. Daenerys steps out of the tomb with Rickon, the latter pulling his hand away when she tries to reach for it. She wonders why all the Starks are so stubborn.

Rickon shoos Shaggydog back, and the wolf whines before slinking back into the crypt. He glances up at Daenerys. “Don’t tell anyone I hide him here.”

Daenerys shakes her head. “Not if you don’t.”

Rickon nods before running off towards the keep, passing out of sight around a stone wall of the courtyard. Moments later, Daenerys hears cries of relief, and she nods, clasping her hands together and making her own way to the keep.

Daenerys arrives at her room with Jorah waiting outside, holding a shelf of papers and frowning at them.

“Daenerys,” he turns to greet her, “Lady Sansa sends these as your copies. She apologizes for not giving them to you in person, as she is busy planning for the wedding festivities with Lady Catelyn.”

“Oh.” Her stomach drops a little. She clears her throat. “Is there anything of note?”

Jorah shakes his head. He hands her the sheets as Daenerys slips into her room, placing the papers on the table and sinking into her bed. His brows furrow. “Are you feeling well?”

Daenerys glances out the window, noting the full moon. “I’m not certain.”

Jorah is silent. “Are you reconsidering the marriage alliance?”

Surprised, Daenerys laughs before she stops. “I’m not certain of that either.”

Jorah stops in her door frame, respectfully staying where he is. “Daenerys, if you have any doubts or questions in your heart, you must speak them now before the ceremony. Else, the marriage alliance will not be the only thing that becomes broken.”

“These are not questions so easily spoken.”

“Then, they are the most important ones to speak.”

Daenerys glares, and Jorah meets her gaze, patient, understanding. He says, softly. “Ask as soon as you can, Daenerys. Else, you may never get to.”

Her eyes flick up at Jorah’s grave face. “Are you speaking out of experience?”

Jorah merely shakes his head and closes the door, leaving Daenerys to her thoughts.

She catches Bran in the library the next morning.

He cocks his head. “Your wedding is in two days. Why are you here?”

She surges forth, opening the book on the Warg King to a particular page and placing it in front of Bran. “A wise friend told me to ask the questions on my heart.” Daenerys pauses. “And I thought to start with the ones you can answer.”

Bran’s eyes flicker. They glow so briefly, like the green of a budding leaf in spring, Daenerys wonders if she imagined it. “Is that the only thing you want?”

Daenerys stares. “What?”

Bran closes his eyes, holding his hand to his temple. He looks like he has a headache. “Ignore that. Sometimes, I say things that haven’t been said yet.”

“...that clarified things even less.” 

Bran shrugs. “It’s of little matter right now.” He draws Daenerys’ attention back to the opened tome with its yellowed pages, fingers tracing an ink drawing of a crowned man morphing into a wolf. “Tell me, what did you learn?”

Daenerys relays the tales of the Warg King, his ability to control the minds of wolves, how his House fell by the blades of the Starks, how the Starks slew his sons and stole his daughters. 

She rests her head upon her interlaced fingers. “You came from a line of abductors.”

“And you from three hundred years of incestuous marriages.”

Daenerys waves his comment off. “Yes, but everyone knew that already.”

Bran gazes out the window. “You wouldn’t know this, having lived in Essos most of your life, but in Westeros, especially in the south, wargs are regularly hunted and butchered.”

Daenerys frowns. “What for?”

“The same reasons people everywhere kill those they don’t understand.” Bran glances sidelong at her.

Daenerys taps her long fingers along the table. “What a waste. If I knew wargs, I would recruit them into my armies.”

“Maybe that’s why people hide their wargs from you, Lady Targaryen.”

Daenerys snorts. “I will find them.”

“Yes.” Bran stares at the book between them. “Although you will wish that you didn’t.” He turns and pulls another book from a shelf before Daenerys can press him further. On the cover is a silvered-haired warrior with eyes the colour of raw amethyst, garbed in armour that resembles large dragon scales. “Your brother, Rhaegar.” He adds at Daenerys’ raised eyebrows. “I thought you might want to read about what happened to your family.”

And Daenerys does. She scours the books Bran brings her for every tale about the Targaryens, every line that have been continued or snuffed out. She pours over tomes that detail several descents of rulers who have succumbed to obsession and paranoia and destroyed their families in the process. The kings and queens who start with good intent only to end up betrayed and deposed. She grows uneasy. “What is the point of showing me all this?” she asks when the sunlight rises overhead.

“You wanted to know answers to our family. I thought it fair to show answers to your own.” Bran stands half in the light and half in shadows, and for a moment, he looks far older than his sixteen summers suggest. “The cost they paid to the Iron Throne.”

“They were usurped. The throne belongs to the Targaryens, and I will reclaim it for them.”

Bran studies her, silent. “Make sure that the price of attaining it is one that you’re willing to pay.”

“Of course, it is.” Daenerys’s fingers twitch on the table. “It’s what I’ve been longing for my entire life.”

“It’s only what you think you long for. Don’t trade what you want for what you think you are supposed to want.” He turns, readying himself to leave. “We should go. Sansa is waiting.” He doesn’t respond when Daenerys stares and presses him about what he means. 

It’s still daylight by the time they make it to the keep, and Bran parts from her just inside the gate, merely pointing towards a downward path tracing around the building. Daenerys frowns but follows his direction, nearly walking around into a pacing Sansa, her black fur hood nearly bristling around her head.

“Oh, there you are.” Sansa breathes out, relaxing her shoulders. There’s something about the brightness of her eyes and slight smile that almost seem feral. “I was—“

“Waiting for me?” Daenerys echoes Bran. “But why down there?”

Sansa’s face is impassive, but her hands race restlessly over her dress, smoothing down non-existent wrinkles. “I was hoping to show you where we would get married, so you would be familiar with the path there.”

Daenerys quirks an eyebrow. “You say that, Lady Stark, but what if I like surprises?”

“You say that like it would be the only one I’d be giving you that day.” Sansa shrugs, impressively casual. “It is merely an offer. If you have far more important matters on your mind—“

She does. “I have time for you.”

Sansa turns away, but Daenerys hears a sigh and spots a small upturn of the corner of Sansa’s mouth. “Follow me.”

Sansa takes her to the godswood that is blocked off by high walls, and Daenerys is amazed by the thickness of the trunks, the height of the trees as if belonging to a time beyond hers. It casts their path in primal shadows, and Daenerys is reminded of whatever she felt in the crypt. Even the dirt feels ancient, so tightly packed together, she still feels like she’s walking on stone.

Daenerys breathes in the scent of the grove, sparks tingling up and down her body, leading to her brain. She feels like something huge and ancient and unfathomably vast pours into her. She feels like she’s been drowning her whole life, and she’s only just broken the surface for air.

At the same time, she feels like an intruder, someone peeking into a window to see something she shouldn’t see. The magic in the ground and air, though vast, is frosty, like the mountains to the far north, like the eyes of the woman besides her. It flows slowly in her, not boiling like the fire in her veins, but patient, waiting, assessing.

After ten minutes, Sansa steps up to the tree in the centre of the clearing, a face carved intricately into the wood as if a person melded into it. The bark reminds Daenerys of fresh bone, broken through from skin, red leaves as startlingly bright as spilled blood. Beside it lies a pool of water as dark as starless nights. “This is the heart tree where those of the North pray to the old gods. We will get married underneath.” Her voice is calm, strong, but her fingers shake against the tree. “All Starks in the North have been married before it.”

Daenerys approaches slowly. “Why?”

“Traditional and superstition, I suppose.” Sansa half-shrugs, glancing over her shoulder. “It is said to be impossible to tell a lie in front of it, for the old gods can tell.” She frowns when she notices Daenerys stops some distance away. “Why don’t you come closer?”

“I’m trying.” Daenerys feels sweat on her brow. “I don’t think you have noticed, but this is Stark land and, hence, Stark magic. I am not certain that I am wanted here.”

Sansa tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Daenerys sighs and seats herself on the snowy grass. She wipes at her face. It feels like being watched by a thousand unseen eyes. “A land either accepts your blood, or it rejects it. If it finds you unworthy, it will find a way to throw you out.” At least, that is what the tomes in the library say about magic in the land. “Your heart tree—“ she gestures towards the silent guardian, “—hasn’t decided if it trusts me yet.” She shakes her head. “This will make no sense to you. As a Stark, you are automatically accepted.”

“No, I have heard of that effect on others before.” Sansa hesitates. “Theon has often mentioned he doesn’t feel like this is his place when he’s here.”

Daenerys scowls. What does it take to be accepted by that stupid tree?

Sansa strokes the bark once before walking towards Daenerys. “I had hoped that it would not be the case with you as it is with him, but you still are able to sit this close then maybe…” She turns away. “Perhaps, it just isn’t time yet.”

Daenerys watches as Sansa smooths out her dress again. Sansa glances up, and for a moment, Daenerys swears there was a tinge of green in them. “Shall we go?”

They walk back in silence with Daenerys staring at the ground, brows furrowed. Sansa glances at her but doesn’t say anything.

Just before they reach the walls they surround the great keep, Sansa stops. “I was hoping to invite you to my quarters for dinner.”

“Lady Stark, inviting your betrothed to your chambers at night mere days before your wedding?” Daenerys raises her eyebrows in mock surprise. “I wonder what thoughts are running through your head.”

Sansa flushes but doesn’t respond.

Daenerys’s teasing tone slips away when Sansa’s face grows redder.

Oh.

Sansa tosses her head high, cheeks still tinged with red. “If you are busy, you can decline respectfully, not—“

“I’m not.” Daenerys clears her throat. “I would be honoured to dine with you.”

Sansa watches her face as searching for some sign of deceit, of mockery. When she finishes, her shoulders relax. She smiles. “I shall be waiting for you then.”

Daenerys and Sansa part at the gate, and Daenerys practically leaps up the stairs. Her mood rides high, and neither Jorah’s puzzled glances nor Missandei’s knowing looks deters her energy, her spirits. 

They go over news from her spies and allies, only breaking at a knock on Daenerys’ door. Jorah opens it to see a maid barely Bran’s age curtseying low. “I am here to escort the queen of Essos to Lady Stark’s chamber for supper.” 

Jorah turns around and lifts an eyebrow.

Daenerys shrugs and passes by him. “It’s a nice title.”

The maid leads her to the higher levels of the keep, and they pass by a highly guarded doorway filled with knights scrutinizing her before they stop in front of a wide oak door in the middle of a stone hallway. The girl knocks once before a muffled voice beckons them to come in. They step through, and Daenerys immediately spots a small table close by, laden with silver platters of roasted medallions of venison on a bed of potatoes and parsnips, glasses of wine, and a golden apple tart. Between the two plates stands a crystal vase with a single winter rose. Daenerys nearly marries Sansa on the spot.

Sansa rises from her seat, a simple, carved chair as practical as the Starks. She smiles at Daenerys and turns to the maid. “Thank you for leading her here. Could you see to it that no one disturbs us?”

The maid nods and quickly exits as Daenerys spots a shallow basin filled with water and folded linen towels sit on a table at the side of the door. “I take it that I am expected to wash up?”

“It is custom here to offer guests the chance.” Sansa watches her, and Daenerys does rinse her hands in the basin if only to wash off the musk of old tomes. When she finishes, Sansa escorts her to the table, even waiting to push her chair in, and Daenerys is distracted by the scent of her as she leans over, red hair trailing down one of Daenerys’ shoulders. “I hope everything is to your liking.”

“I’m sure I will have no complaints.” Daenerys turns around to observe the rest of the room. Against the far wall is a huge wooden dresser with intricate carvings along its frame and a wide bed that could fit four people, whose bed posts nearly reach up to the ceiling, carved with all manners of wolves and kings along the wood. Just at the top of posts lies a canopy of a startling red, like blood, like fire. 

Sansa glances at her as she seats herself. “What are you thinking of?”

“Tossing you onto your bed.” Daenerys exhales as Sansa’s eyebrows rises. “But it is not our wedding yet.”

Dinner is a silent affair as usual, but there’s something warmer to the quiet, to the glances Sansa casts her way, the way their legs brush underneath the table. When they finish off the venison and the tart, Daenerys sighs and leans back in her chair. “That meal is worth a marriage.”

“I certainly hope so.” Sansa sips from her wine. “I had hoped to invite you to lunch, but I was not able to find you in time.”

Daenerys nods. “I have been doing some reading in your library and doing research on wolves myself.” 

At that Sansa freezes, wine glass at her mouth. She slowly places it down on the table. “What did you learn?”

Daenerys tilts her head and crosses her arms. “The Starks are descended from the Warg King along with many other Houses with magic, due to their penchant for taking the daughters and women of the people they conquer. They have an extremely strong bond with direwolves, and many Kings of the North are buried with theirs.” She pauses. “Oh, and you can see through the eyes of your direwolf through dreams. Is that accurate?”

Sansa rubs her fingers into her temples. She looks like she has a headache. “More or less.” 

“What I don’t understand—” Daenerys drums her fingers on the table. “—is why hide this from me?”

“Because that is not the only magic that runs through our veins.” She sighs, “Have you ever noticed Bran is different?”

“In many ways, yes, but I think you’re referring to something else altogether.”

Sansa laces her fingers together. “Bran is a greenseer, which means he can see into the past and future.”

Daenerys perks. “That would be useful on the fields of battle.”

Sansa looks at her, silent, and Daenerys realizes she said something wrong. She apologizes. “It seems that is a sensitive topic.”

“Many Stark children have gone missing to fuel the engine of war over the last hundreds of years.” Sansa exhales slowly. “We have been successfully discouraging the rumours of our skinchanging abilities until they are mere myths in people’s minds.”

“Skinchange?”

Sansa reaches out to pluck the winter rose out of the vase, twisting the stem. “The Starks are of the First Men. They have the ability to enter the minds of animals and control their bodies, depending on the strength of the bond between them. The closer, the better. Up in the North, the direwolves we grow up with become our eyes and ears beyond the castle.”

“Can you do that with people?” Daenerys’ mind races through the possibilities, barely noting Sansa’s pained expression.

“Daenerys—“

“This could impact taking the Iron Throne. With spies everywhere, how can House Baratheon stand a chance against our armies? How can they say no if we take over their minds?”

Sansa grimaces, “It’s an abomination—“

“What is a real abomination is the fact that the man who murdered my brother sits on my throne. The man who betrayed my father and his vows is in high standing in the Kingsguard! The boy who would have married you would have been entirely undeserving of your hand.” Daenerys clenches her fist, not sure what she’s grasping at. “We could take over the king’s body! The prince’s! We could end a war before it begins! I could get my Iron Throne! I can retrieve what’s left of my family’s legacy. I could get something for them.” Daenerys jumps up, slamming her palms on the table, electricity thrumming through her veins. Her voice cracks slightly, but she pushes on. “That’s all I ever wanted!”

Sansa goes quiet. “Is that the only thing you want?”

“Yes!” Daenerys hears the echo of her answer in the room like the aftermath of an explosion. She feels her heart sink into her stomach at Sansa’s expression.

Sansa places the winter rose on the table between them like a barrier. “Is the Iron Throne all you care about?”

“No,” Daenerys sees surprise flit across Sansa’s face at how readily the answer comes. She’s stunned herself. “But that has been my purpose my entire life, what I have been made for. I cannot give it up.”

Sansa stares over her hands before her gaze softens. “Up until last summer, I thought my purpose was to marry a handsome, kind prince until I realized there are none in King’s Landing.” When Daenerys doesn’t respond, she continues, “Tell me, are you aware of what happened last year in the south?”

Daenerys shakes her head.

“The rebellion happened.” Sansa leans forward, head on her hands, gaze distant. “The prince put it down brutally, and the king let him.”

Daenerys studies Sansa, the tension in her jaws, the look in her eyes. She waits for her to continue, despite the silence that stretches on so long, Daenerys doubts that she would.

Sansa starts again.

“In the summer, there should be vendors in the market square, selling sweet-smelling fruit from across the sea and jewels and trinkets of all kinds. Instead, there were executions,” Sansa’s mouth thins, “regardless of the severity of the crime.”

Daenerys leans forward. “The prince made you watch?”

“He made me participate.” Sansa shudders and covers her face. 

Daenerys reaches out, stroking Sansa’s arms, her shoulders. “Take your time.”

“No, I can’t! I need to tell you but—“ Sansa chokes, shaking in her chair. “The words, they won’t—“

Daenerys gets out of her chair. She steps over and hugs Sansa, feeling her betrothed tense, nearly snarling. “They will come when they are ready, when you’re ready. Don’t force them. I can wait either way.” 

Sansa is tense like iron, like Valyrian steel. It takes minutes before she starts to relax into Daenerys, reaching around to reciprocate the hug. “I—“ 

When Sansa doesn’t continue, Daenerys soothes her, brushing hair away from her face. “You don’t have to force yourself right now. I’ll have a lifetime to get to know you and understand what you went through.”

Sansa turns her head away, resting it along Daenerys’ chest, eyes wet. She doesn’t say anything, but she relaxes against Daenerys, who runs her fingers through Sansa’s hair. Daenerys discovers that she really likes doing that.

At last, Sansa pushes herself away, wiping at her face and straightening in her seat. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Daenerys smiles gently. “I’m not.”

Sansa glances at her, relaxing further. “Maybe you’ll make a fine wife yet, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Daenerys studies her before slipping her hands onto Sansa’s cheeks and tilting her head gently up. She kisses Sansa, feeling her rise to return it. When Daenerys pulls back, Sansa’s face falls. 

Daenerys strokes her hair back. “I’ll say the same of you, Sansa Stark.” Sansa looks at her in a way that makes heat stir in Daenerys’ belly, and the latter shifts. “I should return to my chambers.”

Sansa nods and rises, gracefully gathering her skirts while Daenerys watches, admiring the way the lights soften the look of her skin, the sharpness of her features. Daenerys regrets that she has to go.

Sansa studies her before reaching out to smooth Daenerys’ hair back behind her ears. “I will escort you out.” 

At the door, Daenerys lingers, hand on the doorframe, Sansa right behind her, and her feet feel stuck to the ground. She closes her eyes and takes a moment to pray before she wishes Sansa goodnight and leaves.

She’ll be back soon enough.


	6. Acquainted with the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys bonds with Sansa further, but she realizes that the marriage may not be so ideal with a problem Sansa brings up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Halifax, my awesome betareader and collaborator. This story would not be as polished as it is without you.

Sansa shows up at Daenerys’ door the next morning, a bundle under her arm.

“I wanted to catch you before you went out.” Sansa keeps her gaze on Daenerys’ face, but her fingers fidget with something on her sleeve. There’s a slight edge to her expression that seems nervous. “Would...would you be open to a suggestion to your day?” 

Daenerys leans against her door frame. She smiles, brushing her hair out of her eyes, watching Sansa’s gaze track the motion. “It depends on what you would suggest.” Her voice retains its morning husk, and it has its effect on Sansa who blinks and reddens slightly.

Sansa clears her throat. “I… I had hoped to show you around Winterfell some more, so that you may be more familiar with our home. Your home in the next day,” she finishes, softly.

Daenerys has never had one, but she doesn’t point that out. “What places were you considering?” She is not descending into the crypts again.

“The hot springs. They are often used to clean ourselves in preparation for an event and to soften your skin. I don’t believe you have seen it.” Sansa fidgets further with the front of her dress. “Of course, if you don’t wish to attend—”

“I would love to.” Daenerys cuts in, and she’s rewarded with a smile that makes her heartbeat hammer. “Are we going to there first? What do we wear?” At Sansa’s blush, Daenerys grins. “Oh. Was that your plan all along?”

Missandei pokes her head out of her room across the hall, rubbing at her eye. She glances between the two women. “What is going on that has you talking at the light of dawn?”

“I just invited Daenerys to the hot springs. Would you like to join?” Sansa turns away, a flush spreading down the side of her neck.

Daenerys scowls and shakes her head when Missandei glances over to her. Missandei hums thoughtfully before inclining her head. “Yes, I would, Lady Stark. That is quite kind of you to offer.”

Daenerys stares as Sansa offers to wait with clear relief on her face. When Missandei returns with her cloak in tow, they set off down the stairs and out of the keep. Daenerys falls back out of earshot of Sansa to hiss at Missandei. “I thought you were my advisor with my best interests at heart.”

“I am looking out for you.” Missandei keeps walking, unfazed. “Jorah mentioned that Northerners take the idea of purity very seriously, so your best interests would be not to take your bride’s maidenhood in the family’s hot springs. At least until after the wedding.”

“I would not have—” Daenerys pauses. “—well, if she was open to the idea.” 

Missandei smiles slightly. “I know you well, Daenerys.” 

Sansa glances back, waiting until they catch up. “What were you discussing?”

“Something minor.” Missandei peers around, changing the subject. “Where are we headed to? This looks like the godswood.” She eyes the iron gate in front of them.

“Good eye.” Sansa nods, approvingly. “The hot springs are located just under the guest house.” She opens the gate to let them pass onto a slightly different path than the one Sansa took her on yesterday.

Missandei peers at the trees curiously. “Oaks, elms, ash, and quite a few others I don’t recognize.”

Sansa nods towards the towering trees around them. “These have been here for thousands of years—a sacred place where we worship the old gods.” She and Missandei get into a discussion about the different types of trees and plants in the godswood, and Daenerys peers around, still feeling a magic in her bones like hundreds of judges deciding on what to do with her. It is an uncomfortable walk to the hot springs for the next few minutes.

“I see them.” Daenerys squints at three small pools beside a moss-covered wall as they finally come into view. “Wait, why aren’t we staying in the guest house?”

Sansa glances over. “Father suggested that you might appreciate the greater security of the keep upon your stay.”

He’s not wrong. Daenerys eyes the pools of boiling water then Sansa. “Do we take off our clothes to enter?”

“Yes.” Sansa flushes, looking at Missandei for some reason. 

Missandei nods and takes Daenerys over to the wall. “We should leave the lady to her private changing.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to protest but stops when she spots the line of Sansa’s shoulder as her dress slips down, the skin smooth and a lovely pale colour. She swallows and turns away, nodding, hurriedly shirking her own outfit. 

Missandei sinks into one pool, wincing, while Daenerys takes another, suddenly fascinated with the moss on the wall until she hears Sansa slip into the pool beside her. She sighs in relief.

Daenerys turns to see Sansa staring at her, strands of red hair escaping her bun. “This feels lovely. Thank you.”

Sansa purses her lips, glancing down at where the water meets Daenerys’ collarbone. “How do you find the temperature?”

“It feels like a warm bath.”

Missandei looks over. “I’m boiling.” 

Sansa laughs, “It does take some time to get used to.” She looks at the dark-skinned woman curiously. “Where are you from, by the way? I don’t think I have heard Daenerys nor you mention it.”

“I am from the island of Naath, but Daenerys found me as a slave in Astapor.” Missandei keeps her gaze on Sansa, who listens with wide eyes. “I suppose you could say she rescued me, though she asked for me as a gift in a bargain.”

Daenerys snorts. “I was trying to go with the option that didn’t involve cutting your master’s head off.” 

“Regardless, I have been much better off for it.” Missandei smiles fondly at Daenerys who returns it. “Since then, I have served as translator and handmaiden to her.” Pre-empting Sansa’s next question, she adds, “I speak no less than 19 languages.”

Sansa looks at her, impressed. “Would you consider exiting Daenerys’ employ and entering mine if I offer better pay?”

Missandei laughs while Daenerys reaches over and pulls her friend to her. Daenerys looks at Sansa. “My apologies, but you will have to rescue your own slave.”

Sansa shrugs. “Little matter. We will share our people in a day or so.”

Daenerys scowls, but Missandei smiles at Sansa. She moves free of Daenerys’ hold. “I would be honoured to do any work for you. Any lady of Daenerys is a lady of mine.” 

Sansa colours. “Thank you, Missandei. I may require your assistance in the future.” Her eyes catches onto the jagged, healed lines on the translator’s shoulders, lighter than the rest of her skin. “Oh. Those scars.”

“They’re not bad—not like the ones the other slaves have. I used to be more defiant as a child when they first took me away. I quickly learned from the lash not to be.” Missandei shakes her head. “Besides, we all carry scars. No one leaves life unmarked.”

Daenerys glances at Sansa who runs her hand over her nape where a thin ridge runs along the skin. If not for her hair up, Daenerys would never have noticed. “What is that on your neck?”

Sansa stiffens. “A memory from King’s Landing.” She exhales and looks away. When she doesn’t answer, Daenerys and Missandei take that as their cue to disengage and talk about other things while Sansa is deep in thought.

After twenty minutes, Sansa declares it best for them all to get out. Daenerys reluctantly pulls herself from the water, feeling quite at home, while Missandei couldn’t get out fast enough. Sansa hands them towels from the bundle she was carrying, and they quickly dress, heading back to the keep, feeling cleaner than before.

Sansa glances over during their walk. “I hope you enjoyed the experience.”

Missandei nods. “It was a kind thought, though perhaps too hot for me.”

Sansa hums before turning to Daenerys. “You don’t have any scars.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

“Your body, it doesn’t—” 

“You were looking?” Daenerys didn’t get to look.

Sansa’s cheeks redden slightly. “I may have glanced over once or twice.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Missandei remarks, dryly, as Sansa shoots her a look.

“When did you—”

Sansa clears her throat. “How is it that you have gone through everything you have without the slightest mark?”

“I do carry them. They’re just not anywhere you can see.” Daenerys meets Sansa’s gaze, and Sansa falls quiet, brows furrowed. She looks at Daenerys with a worried expression. “What is it?”

“I—”

A maid wrapped in furs darts around the corner towards them. “Lady Sansa! Your parents request your help with—” She glances at Daenerys. “—some of your celebration planning for tomorrow night!”

Sansa sighs. She looks at Daenerys almost regretfully. “I am sorry, but I have to attend to this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She nods to a Missandei. “May I ask your help in this matter? It requires...delicate counsel.”

Missandei exchanges looks with Daenerys, but she steps forward. “Of course, Lady Sansa.”

The three of them leave while Daenerys is left alone near Hunter’s Gate. She turns and watches as men haul in sleds of fresh deer and boar, fish dragged from the lakes in nets dusted with ice, piles of unlucky fowl not smart enough to fly south when the snow fell. 

Someone steps up next to her. Daenerys turns to see the youngest Stark sister scowling with her arms crossed. “They sent out more hunting parties after the one you accompanied.” She grunts, “Expecting a big attendance.”

Daenerys tilts her head at the other girl. “That’s very kind of you all. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with northern marriage customs as I am with the ones in the East.”

Arya glances sidelong. “What are they like in the Dothraki?”

She shrugs. “If a dozen men didn’t fight to the death on the wedding day, it is considered a poor celebration.”

Arya shrugs. “Still more exciting than here.” She falls silent before she sighs and turns to face Daenerys. “Where’s your dragon?”

“He’s off flying somewhere, but I can always call him back.” An idea strikes her, and Daenerys smiles. “Do you want to go on an adventure?”

It takes very little time for Drogon to return and land just outside Hunter’s Gate, spooking all the horses nearby and nearly sending them fleeing when he eyes them. Daenerys rubs his snout and sings soft words to him while Arya is already trying to climb up his back. The queen rolls her eyes and continues to speak with Drogon for a few minutes more before she clambers onto him, helping Arya who manages to crawl close to Drogon’s shoulders. 

Daenerys yanks Arya closer, and the Stark girl slams into her back. Arya pushes herself away, but Daenerys grabs her hands and clasp them around her own middle. “If you don’t hold on, stubborn one, you’ll fall the moment we take off.”

Arya grumbles under her breath but scoots closer, the threat of death by falling from a great height enough to sedate her momentarily.

Daenerys smiles as she leans down into Drogon, whispering in Valyrian for him to take off. He darts forward, picking up speed as men dive to the side of his path, his great wings flapping. When he finally clears the ground, Daenerys feels that familiar lurch of weightlessness and the sudden tightness around her waist. Vaguely, she hears Arya’s shout in her ears. The ground falls away as the trees tilt sideways just for a few seconds before Drogon clears them, and they soar into the sky.

Daenerys feels that combination of fear and exhilaration, knowing how close she is to freedom, how close to death if she chose to let go. “You can open your eyes now.”

“I had them open the whole time,” Arya shoots back.

Daenerys smiles. “Since I can’t look backwards, I’ll take you at your word.” She looks down below them, watching the curve of the mountains below them, white patches of trees surrounding a thin brown line that she assumes is a road. She glances back up into the sky, into an unrestricted vastness, and she relaxes.

“Sometimes,” Daenerys begins, still looking forward. “I take Drogon out for a trip to clear my head, to run away from everything if only a while.”

“Why? Aren’t you the queen of Essos?”

“That’s why. When I’m up here, I don’t need to be Daenerys Stormborn. I don’t need to be the Mother of Dragons, or Breaker of Chains. I have no name up here, no pressure. I can just ride without having to answer to people, without having to demand. If I wanted to, I can escape from it all, live a quiet life where no one knows me nor my face. I do consider it once in a while.” Daenerys’ hands tighten on Drogon’s spines. “But then I remember who I am, and I come back. The choices I set in motion are too big for me to not see them to the end.”

Arya goes quiet. “I understand.” She sighs and places her cheek against Daenerys’ back. “I’m a Stark girl. I have so many expectations of me that I don’t live up to, that I’m not good enough to meet. I’m not allowed to fight, I’m not allowed to ride off to war with the boys. Yet, when I try my hand at ladies’ work, Sansa is always better. She’s always perfect. Sometimes, I don’t want to be a Stark. I’d rather be someone nameless, faceless, so I can get get out and be whoever I need to be to have adventures.”

Daenerys hums. “Would you trade your name and family for the chance?”

Arya’s reply is instant. “Never. No adventure is worth their lives.

Daenerys makes an approving noise. “You have a good head on your shoulders, Arya. I pray it stays there.”

Arya doesn’t respond, and Daenerys doesn’t prompt her. They ride in comfortable silence until Daenerys takes Drogon higher. She feels Arya shiver and huddle close to her. “I thought you were of winter’s blood.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m a human furnace like you!” Arya squeezes closer. “Gods, you’re a brazier yourself. No wonder Sansa warms up around you.”

Daenerys smiles despite herself. “I hope she does.”

“Are you kidding? She’s been trailing behind you like a love-sick puppy since the moment you came!” Arya shouts into a wind that’s picked up, words almost tossed away as quickly as they come. “She’s head-over-heels for you!”

Daenerys mutters, “Maybe the feeling is mutual.”

“What?”

Daenerys doesn’t repeat herself. 

She flies over the thick swath of forest beneath them, watching rivers running slowly like sluggish blood pumped through thin veins, the white sections mixing into warm green the further she flies south. Below them, something catches her eyes. She frowns, noting the thin of columns of black figures converging towards the direction of King’s Landing, automatically tilting Drogon into a descent towards them without thinking.

Arya tries to peer around her. “What is it? What do you see?”

Daenerys pulls up. She takes a long time to look away. “Nothing,” she growls. She wheels her dragon around towards the north. “Let’s head back.”

Drogon circles back to Winterfell, and as they descend, Arya whoops, cheering loudly as Daenerys lands him smoothly just outside where they took off. She peels Arya’s hands from around her waist, grinning, as she looks up and spots Sansa glaring at them from the gate. Her shoulders are hunched, fur hood bristling, nearly snarling. 

Daenerys’ smile slips off.

Arya leaps down, all windswept hair and reddened cheeks, and lands roughly on her feet. She bounds to her sister and shakes her. “That was so amazing! Sansa, you need to ride this dragon!”

Sansa stares at Daenerys, jaws tight. “I plan to.”

Daenerys dismounts from Drogon and approaches the sisters slowly. “I thought it would be a good opportunity to get to know Arya better.”

“By letting her ride with you?”

Arya scoffs, turning to Daenerys. “Don’t mind her. Sansa would get jealous if you sneezed near another lady.”

Sansa tenses, and Daenerys steps in between the sisters, taking Sansa’s arm. “We’ll just be heading off then.” She turns and gestures to Drogon who roars and takes off into the sky to the amazed muttering of the men and women around them. 

“You’re not bad,” Arya sighs and crosses her arms as Sansa and Daenerys leave. “Don’t let her bite your head off too much.”

Daenerys glances back, but Sansa surges ahead, pulling her betrothed in her wake. Sansa leads them up a familiar set of stairs, and they climb until they’re onto the ramparts where they first met, quiet and empty.

Daenerys turns, facing her. “If you do tear my head off, make it fast. I prefer a quick death.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Sansa exhales shakily, running her hands through her hair. “What were you thinking, taking off like that?”

Daenerys stiffens. “I was thinking to show your sister the skies and leave Winterfell for a short time.” Her fingers twitch. “Is that a problem, dear soon-to-be-wife?”

“I don’t—” Sansa closes her eyes. “I don’t mean to dictate what you do—”

“Funny, because it sounds exactly what you were trying to do.”

Sansa snaps her eyes open, and the coldness in them makes Daenerys shiver harder than the frost around them. “Forgive me, Lady Targaryen, for wondering where my betrothed went and whether she would ever come back.” She stalks over to the wall, slamming her hands on the ramparts, and glaring, shoulders hunched. She looks sad.

Daenerys feels herself softening. She steps closer. “What do you mean?” 

Sansa flinches, covering her mouth. She exhales and brings her hand down. “I...spoke out of turn.”

“But you said what you thought was true.”

Sansa goes silent. “I know who you are, Daenerys of House Targaryen, conqueror of Essos, Khaleeesi of the Dothraki. Conquest is in your blood, expanding your empire is bred into you. It will be inevitable that you will leave to find new worlds to add to your kingdom. Most times, you’ll return. One day, you won’t.” Sansa shakes her head. “Perhaps, I’m being too possessive, too jealous of your time with me. That’s because I know the moment after we get married, you’ll fly off to war. That’s just who you are. But I don’t know if you’ll always come back.”

Daenerys places a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Of course, I will.”

“You can’t promise that. What if you die in front of the Iron Throne?”

“What if I seize it? It could be our chance to consolidate our power in the Seven Kingdoms!”

“For whom?” Sansa eyes her. She exhales and turns away. “I never wanted it.”

Daenerys sputters, fists clenching, “Are you saying you wouldn’t support me?”

“I’m saying that the throne is no replacement for a family, and you will do well to remember that.”

Daenerys draws herself up to her full height. “You do not command a queen.”

Sansa straightens up as well. “And you do not command your wife.” She turns and stalks down the ramparts while Daenerys gapes after her. After Daenerys gathers her wits, she storms through the snow to chase Sansa, but Sansa is already gone. 

She stalks through the streets to the great keep and when she questions the guards, they tell her that Sansa hasn’t returned. Fuming, she hurls herself up the stairs to her room, slamming the door behind her. Daenerys curses loudly and hurls her cloak onto the bed, pacing and muttering around the room. A knock sounds at the door, and Daenerys glares before calling out a terse welcome.

Jorah enters the room, brows furrowing when he sees Daenerys. “What happened?”

Daenerys vents about the situation. Jorah seats himself at the table, listening thoughtfully. “She’s already arguing with me about how to approach things, about my aims, and we haven’t even wed yet!”

Jorah shrugs. “Welcome to matrimony.” He leans on his elbow, resting his chin on his knuckles. “My question is why does this make you upset?”

“Because it—” Daenerys cuts herself off. “She should be on my side.”

“You’re from two Houses that went to war with each other, and you’re a strange invader with an army and three dragons behind her, entreating her to a marriage alliance that neither of you planned.” Jorah studies her. “It is fortunate that she is not more suspicious and cold than she should be, considering the circumstances.”

“Yes, but—” 

“And it sounds like you want her to be loyal to you, and loyalty means unconditionally supporting your cause, is that right?”

Daenerys nods.

Jorah exhales. “Have you ever considered that perhaps that isn’t the most important thing to her?”

“What?” Daenerys’ brows furrow. “Why wouldn’t she—”

Jorah closes his eyes before opening them again, nodding. “Daenerys, who were you fighting for when you destroyed the slavers in Astapor? In Yunkai?”

She frowns. “I was fighting for the Unsullied and Missandei.”

“Yes, but before all that, you were fighting for yourself, for your family.” Jorah gazes at her. “Who do you think Sansa is fighting for?”

“For the Starks, I imagined. For the North.”

Jorah shakes his head. “She’s fighting for you. For your family with her.”

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?” 

“When you marry her,” Jorah continues, “you become part of hers. You’ve been married before, Daenerys. Wasn’t it the same for you coming into Khal Drogo’s khalasar?”

“Yes, but—” Daenerys frowns. “Why is this all so much more confusing?”

Jorah looks at her, patiently. “Because you have never been married to a woman.” He opens his arms as if to say, ‘Welcome to the other side.’ “Furthermore, if you want a harmonious marriage, you must ensure that your goals align with each other. If what she wants clashes with what you can provide, it will not end happily.” Jorah’s gaze goes far away. “Not at all.” 

Daenerys exhales, looking at her hands. “She doesn’t want the Iron Throne.”

“Of course not. The Iron Throne was always for you, for your own needs.” Jorah meets her gaze when Daenerys glances sharply at him. “You will have a new family soon. You need to fight for something greater than your own wants and desires, if you wish to keep them.” Jorah shakes his head. “And when you fight for a cause greater than yourself, what you accomplish, what you gain, will be beyond anything you can imagine, anything you thought you deserved.” He goes silent, his eyes softening as he looks at her. “Of this, I do speak from experience.”

When Daenerys doesn’t respond, he nudges her gently. “Go reconcile with your lady, Daenerys.”

After a few moments of silence, she parts from him, heading up to Sansa’s quarters. She wonders if the guards along the hall would stop her, having received possible orders that Daenerys was not allowed in her chambers. Daenerys doesn’t even want to acknowledge how it would feel for her own betrothed to not want to see her.

She stands in front of Sansa’s door, knocking and calling out to her. For a long moment, silence answers, a nerve-wrecking lull that has Daenerys wiping her palms on her dress, taking deep breaths to calm herself. When it seems like no answer will come, Daenerys turns, stomach sinking to her feet, blinking at a hotness that rises in her eyes.

She hears the door swing open behind her, a pause. “It isn’t like you to turn your back on your own ventures.”

Daenerys spins around to find Sansa at the door, wary, one hand on the door as if ready to close it at any moment. “I...I thought you were not there.”

“If that was true, you would not have waited so long.” Sansa widens the door further, and Daenerys steps through. She glances at Sansa, who meets her gaze. They look at each other for a long while, staring. Daenerys’ fingers twitch and the words she wishes to say keep rewriting themselves in her mouth, leaving her voiceless. After a few minutes, Sansa sighs, brushing past Daenerys to sit at her bedside table near a window.

“I imagine I know why you are here.” Sansa taps her fingers on the book she had been writing in. “And I apologize for what I said back then.”

Daenerys approaches her, stopping by a nearby wall and leaning on it when Sansa glances up. “But every word was true, was it not?” When Sansa doesn’t answer, Daenerys gathers her courage and seats herself in front of her betrothed, reaching out to hold her hands. “Everything you said was honest. More than that, it was based on truth. I am a conqueror. All I know is to fight, and I understand that is your worst fear because you wonder if I will come back every time, if one day you’ll be left alone.” When Sansa jerks back, Daenerys tightens her grip. “You have every right to worry, every legitimate reason to do so, but I promise that when we wed, I will do everything in my power to prioritize our family first. But know that I am a Targaryen at birth, in blood. Neither you nor I can hope to alter that.”

Sansa stares out her window. “I know that I won’t change you, that I can’t. I know this is what I need to accept. This is you, even if it breaks my heart, even if it leads to a sad end, you must go on as you are.”

“I’m not going to be just another fallen figure in my family’s story.” Daenerys hesitates, recalling all the previous Targaryens who said the same thing in the tome she read. “That’s not how my story is going to end.”

Sansa just looks at her with a sad, knowing look. She leans over and kisses Daenerys on the forehead, lips warm on her skin. “Go to bed, my betrothed. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.” She squeezes Daenerys’ hand briefly before letting go.

Daenerys exits her room and head back to her chambers, unable to fall asleep that night. 

In the morning time, an elderly man in a grey robe rushes into the great hall, disturbing breakfast. He juts out a tiny piece of parchment in his hand towards Ned as the man gasps and clutches at his chest. “A message! A message from the king!”

“Maester Luwin, please sit down.” Ned stands immediately, taking the note as Robb grabs a chair for the trembling maester. Lord Stark unfurls the paper, Catelyn beside him. Both whiten as they glance over at Daenerys and Sansa.

Daenerys rises, hand instinctively going to the dagger at her belt. “What is it?”

“This is the royal response to our news regarding Sansa’s betrothal.” Ned unfolds the letter, expression growing grimmer as he reads every line. He looks up at Daenerys. “Prince Joffrey declared war.”


	7. A Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys gets answers to many declarations, not all of them about war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many thanks to Halifax to all of her feedback for steering the characters, the chapters, the plot, and inserting herself into your shoes, fellow reader.
> 
> She loves you all.

Catelyn glances at Daenerys in the halt of the hall. “It would be safest to call things off.”

Everyone watches her and Sansa, waiting. Daenerys stands, the scrape of her chair against the stone floor echoing like a rasp against her eardrums. She peers around at pale faces and inhales deeply. She commands, like she is calling to her Unsullied, her Dothraki. She doesn’t know how else to act. “The prince may declare what he likes. The wedding will continue.”

No one moves. The silence in the hall is long and deep with Robb and Jon giving them grim looks while Bran looks impassive, almost sad. Rickon peers around curiously at people’s expressions, and Arya glances between Sansa and Daenerys, putting down her fork.

Daenerys holds her head high, but her fingers tremble. Sansa looks at her from across the table, something in her eyes that Daenerys can’t place. Her betrothed takes a breath before she rises as well. “The wedding will go on.” Her voice rings as clear as a bell. She strides over and intertwines her fingers with Daenerys’, and Daenerys nearly chokes at the swell of something inside her chest. “No one dictates the North but the North alone.” 

After gazing at their intertwined fingers, Ned nods, expression grave. “Aye. The Starks keep their promises.”

Catelyn looks at her husband, expression softening, almost tender. “Ned, you know this means—“

“I know.” Ned drops his face into hands, muttering. “Robert, what are you thinking? This is not a war you can win.”

Daenerys steps forward. “I’ll gladly lend my strength—my men and my dragons.”

“We know you will.” Catelyn gazes at Ned then Sansa. “But this is beyond your understanding. Ned, why don’t you—“

Ned shakes his head. “The last time we opposed a Targaryen and Stark union, civil war broke out. This time around, there was one anyway.”

Daenerys frowns while everyone looks at Ned, confused. “What do you mean?”

Ned leans back, looking older and tired. “There are things I need to tell you before we all embark down to King’s Landing, but first—“ He stands up, meeting the eyes of everyone in the hall. “War is coming,” he calls into the hall, his voice booming through the room. “Prince Joffrey has declared war on Daenerys Stormborn, and thus, war on us. We do not fight for a stranger. We fight for one of us. We do not submit to the pressure of a monarch who did not earn our regard. We do not bend the knee to a prince who disapproves of our alliances. Tomorrow, we prepare for war, but tonight—“ He holds up his cup. “—we celebrate without a care in the world.

“Finish your preparations for the wedding.” Ned calls to the servants, to his family. “Today, my daughter is getting married.” 

He puts down his goblet as the household breaks out into chatter, gesturing for Daenerys and Jon to follow him. Catelyn reaches for him, and Sansa holds tightly onto Daenerys when Ned shakes his head. “This is something that involves these two alone.” He kisses Sansa’s forehead and his wife’s cheek. “Go finish what you started. We will see you soon.”

Sansa glances at Daenerys, but Catelyn takes her arm to lead her away. Jon and Daenerys exchange looks but follow Ned out of the hall.

Ned leads them through the courtyard as white flakes flutter from the sky, and Daenerys pauses. Of course, a war breaks out on her wedding day, and on top of that, it snows.

A familiar lichyard and ironwood door pops up in her view, and Daenerys stops, staring at the crypts once again. “I am not entering.”

Ned opens the entrance. “We won’t go far.”

Jon glances at Daenerys’ face before holding a hand to her. Daenerys swallows, looking at the ancient doors, and grabs Jon’s hand as they creep into the crypt. 

As promised, Ned doesn’t go far. He stops in front of two familiar statues, reaching out and touching his sister’s carved cheek, his brother’s arm. His expression contorts while Daenerys politely looks away.

“Uncle Brandon. Aunt Lyanna.” Jon looks up at the lost Stark siblings, gazing up into Lyanna’s fierce countenance, the stubborn set of her jaw. “She looks so much like Arya, it’s amazing.” 

Daenerys glances at Ned, feeling something thin and fragile on the verge of breaking. “I’m sorry that the Targaryens took her, that my House stole her from you.”

Ned shakes his head, jaws clenched. “She had wolf blood in her, as wild as all Starks can be.” 

“Wolf blood, huh?” Jon muses, studying her statue again. In the flicker of light from a nearby brazier, Daenerys swears that he and Lyanna look alike. “I have to confess, Father, that I never much felt like someone of our House, despite all you have tried to do. It never did feel like I was Stark enough.”

Ned gazes at him, the lines around his eyes looking sharper, more pronounced. His mouth sags. “You begged me once when you were a little boy to tell you about your mother. I always promised you that I would tell you when you were older, and a Stark always remembers his vows. Your mother was someone I held dear to my heart, even closer than Catelyn. She was my sister, Lyanna, and your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Daenerys stares at Ned while Jon barks a laugh then stops when he notices no one else is. “What? Are you serious, Father? I look just like you.”

“Jon.” Ned’s face is drawn, long, sad. “I took you from a bed of blood myself from my sister, your mother. I promised her that I would keep you safe. In truth, I’m not your father but your uncle, and I have tried to raise you the best I can. Perhaps, it wasn’t enough.”

“No, you always let me learn like an equal to Robb.” Jon shakes his head, brows furrowing. “But I’m a Stark.” He glances between Ned’s and Daenerys’ expression. His voice rises. “I may be a bastard, but I have always been a Stark. 

Ned shakes his head. “You are half Stark, Jon. The other is Targaryen.”

Jon grips his hair. His hands shake. “That doesn’t make sense! I can’t accept this.”

Ned shifts, his expression grim. “Does it makes more sense that I would dishonour my betrothed by having a child when I know I am about to marry than I would willingly hide my family under a bastard title to protect them? Am I that kind of man to you, Jon?”

Jon glances up, mouth trembling. “No, that never did make sense.” He exhales and pulls his hands down, staring at them. “But what does this mean? If what you say is true, then my father is…”

Ned looks at her. “Daenerys’ brother.”

“That can’t be. I am the last Targaryen. There is none aside from me, and there will be none after.” Daenerys falters. “At least, that’s what I told myself when Viserys died.” She looks at her hands, trembling. “I have been the last of my House for so long in such a faraway land, sacrificing, slaving to win my birthright, and you—” She lifts her head, grimacing. “—you just happened to be born and raised in Westeros under a family I never had.”

Daenerys meets Jon’s gaze for a painfully long moment. She watches his eyes widen as he reaches the same conclusion she does.

“I don’t want it!” Jon throws his hands up placatingly. “I have never thought about the Iron Throne. I don’t want you stabbing me over it.”

“I wouldn’t—“ She did think about it. “—you know this leaves me in a difficult situation. Even if you do not wish to have it, it doesn’t mean that men won’t rally under you for you to ascend. We have to keep your parentage a secret.”

Ned shakes his head. “No, we should tell the others. Secrets are hard to maintain. They can be used as currency against you.”

Daenerys clenches her fists. “You dare do that, knowing it would undermine my claim?”

“I dare, because it would be one of the easiest ways to remove Robert from the throne without bloodshed—“ Ned’s expression flashes with pain, “—and Jon can abdicate if he wants in favour of you.”

“And what of my birthright? Of the things owed me?”

Ned’s face grows stony. “What of Jon’s?”

Daenerys’s face heats. She snaps open her mouth when Jon cuts in.

“I told you. I don’t want the throne. I never did. If you want it so badly, I will help you fight for it. But,” His eyes cut sharply at her, “I will not stand here and watch you fight my family.”

“You do not know how easy it is for fearful men, for slovenly men, to buck my authority, my claim with you as the trueblood heir.” Her fists clench. “Even if you do not want it, men can force you to accept it, and all I will be known as is a mad queen from Essos.”

Ned speaks, quietly. “We will find a way. You forget, Daenerys, that you are not alone.” His eyes flick at Jon. “The Starks and Targaryens have already been bonded. Today—” He looks at her. “—they come together again, regardless of the things that happened before.”’ He lays a hand, gentle and heavy, on her shoulder. “You have family now. I’m sorry you did not before.” 

Daenerys exhales, breath rattling in her chest. “How is it that given everything that happened before, you would welcome me willingly into yours?”

Ned goes silent, deep in thought. “A Targaryen killed my father and my brother, broke my family into many pieces, fanned the flames of civil war. But you are not him.” His tone softens. “And Sansa chose you. I have learned from hard experience that one does not come between Stark women and the Targaryens they love.” 

Daenerys reels from his words, stomach flipping over. “L-lov—“

Ned walks between Daenerys and Jon. “We should head back. We already said all that we can at this time.”

“No, we did not!” Daenerys calls after him, but Ned is already walking away. Jon glances at her before following him with Daenerys shortly on their heels. “Lord Stark, a word about Jon’s birthright—”

“Tonight.” Ned whirls around, looking wary. “I need to speak further with Jon before we can reconvene. If you wish to continue, we will talk during your feast.” At Daenerys’ expression, Ned stops her protest. He studies her, tilting his head. “A word of advice? To successfully start a new family, you need to leave your old one.” He meets her gaze. “No matter how long the legacy or how destructive the dynamics, you have to leave the past behind you where it belongs.”

He pushes open the crypt doors and walks out before Daenerys can respond. She blinks in the sunlight, the lazy flutter of snow in the air. Ned glances at the sky and nods. “It’ll clear up soon. I suggest you head back to your chambers to prepare for the ceremony at the godswoods in a couple of hours.” He looks at Jon, who stares at him, lips parted. “We should talk alone. You look like you have questions.”

“I do as well.” Daenerys narrows her eyes.

“Yes, but you’re marrying my daughter soon.” Ned glances over his shoulder. “Try not to keep her waiting if you still wish to be wedded.”

Daenerys hisses after his receding figure but returns to her chambers in the keep.

Upon her return, Jorah refuses to let her touch a single message from her allies on her wedding day, and after briefly running through northern customs and expectations, he leaves Daenerys to die of boredom by herself. 

She fidgets in her chair, thinking through Ned’s declaration, Jon’s denial of his birthright, and what it meant for her. Daenerys feels a deep desire to suddenly see Sansa, and she stands. Missandei shakes her head, pushing her back down. 

Missandei’s tone is gentle. “Jorah told me that it is considered bad luck to see the bride right before the ceremony here.”

Daenerys scowls. Stupid northern customs. “What am I supposed to do?”

Missandei holds up a package in her arms of something wrapped in a dark blanket with the sigil of the Starks. “I have an idea, courtesy of your bride, but you would need to bathe first.”

After a short wash, Daenerys finds herself wrapped in a dress of blue and white. She rubs at the material, amazed, and glances down her front. “This fits perfectly. How did Sansa get my measurements?”

Missandei smiles. “She had a good advisor.” She touches the cloth approvingly. “You are extremely lucky, Daenerys. You have a bride who sews beautifully.”

Daenerys pauses in her inspection. “She made this herself?”

“Not all of it, but the trim, yes. The collar, the sleeves.” She studies Daenerys. “The blue surprisingly fits you well. She has a good eye for what brings out the beauty in other people.” 

A knock sounds at the door, and Missandei answers to the sight of two maids bowing before them.

The older one with dark hair streaked with grey and a kindly round face drops her eyes demurely as Daenerys gazes at her. “Your Grace, we come upon the request of Lady Catelyn to help prepare you for the wedding.”

The younger one with bright blonde hair smiles widely. “It was actually Lady Sansa, but she said to use her mother’s name because…” She smirks and exchanges glances with the other maid who frowns. “You have her quite smitten.”

Daenerys nods. “If my bride offers, how could I resist?”

They sit her down under Missandei’s watch onto a stool, fussing over her hair and make-up. Daenerys sits, fingers tight on her dress, as the younger one combs out Daenerys’ hair. 

The older maid glances at Daenerys’ hands. “It’s all right to be nervous on your wedding day, dear.” 

“I am not—” Daenerys swallows. “I have been married before.”

The young maid perks. “What happened?”

“He died.” Daenerys goes quiet. “I did everything I could to save him.” She spots the younger one weave strands of hair into a northern-style braid. “I wear my hair in the Dothraki style.”

“But you are not marrying one today. You are wedding Sansa Stark of the North.” She hums, continuing with her fine finger-work. “And this is how Northern women wear their hair.”

Daenerys blinks, taken off guard. “I—” She reminds herself that Khal Drogo is long gone.

The older one studies Daenerys’ face, humming gently as she helps braid her silver-blonde hair. “My first husband died when I was with child.” When Daenerys straightens up, listening, she continues, “He was caught in the civil war and didn’t come back from riding south with Ned Stark. My second husband was his brother, who married me, so my child could be provided for. A good man. We have had many happy years together.” 

“You moved on?” Daenerys’ jaw tightens. “So soon after his death?”

The maid shakes her head. “I always think of him, in my heart and in my dreams. When I close my eyes at night, I think of the way he looked back at me when he rode off to war, to defend his lord as his father did before him.” She blinks, wiping at her eyes. “But life doesn’t always answers our wishes, and with a child in my belly, I had to make a choice to live for them. That is what he would have wanted.” She finishes her braid and moves onto another. “Life goes on even if they don’t. Lady Catelyn was much the same when her first betrothed died, and Lord Eddard took his place.”

Daenerys goes quiet for the rest of the preparations. The maids finish quickly afterwards and depart with Daenerys staring at the fire crackling in front of her in its iron cage. Missandei circles behind her, resting her hands lightly on her friend’s shoulders. “You are beautiful, my queen.” 

Daenerys gazes out the window. “I hope that is enough.”

A knock sounds at the door, and Daenerys calls them in. Jorah opens the door, dressed in a new cloak and furs. He looks at her. Twice. “Lady Sansa will be lucky to have you.” He drops his gaze. “It’s time.”

Jorah and Missandei accompany her to the godswood where the wedding takes place. They are both dressed in fine, clean clothing with Jorah pulling at his stiff collar. A fresh layer of snow covers the ground on their path, and Daenerys sends up a prayer to thank whatever gods made it stop. The iron gates stand ajar as they pass through, spotting lines of knights, guards, household servants, and various visiting nobles she didn’t recognize as they approach the heart tree. The crowd cheer and applaud, shouting out congratulations as she strides by, a harp playing in the background, and Daenerys peers around at the happy faces, startled.

Jorah smiles. “The Northerners are stiff, but when they celebrate, they take it very seriously.”

“They take everything seriously,” Daenery mutters, uncertain of how to feel with so many wishing her well. “I’m more used to people looking at me in fear or with violence in their hearts. I am not familiar with all of this.”

Jorah glances at her. “Perhaps, it is a time for a change,” he says, softly.

Daenerys stares ahead through the crowd. “Do you think I will be a good wife to her?”

Missandei squeezes her arm while Jorah gazes at her, something sad in his eyes. “I believe you will be far better than you know.” 

After a long walk with people parting before them, she spots the heart tree with its bright red leaves. The Starks gather close to the tree, and they split apart as Daenerys and her advisors approaches, roses of all colours in their arms.

Sansa stands just outside of the tree’s shadow, gazing at her in a golden dress like melted sunlight poured over her form, white fur trim along her collar and sleeves, and Daenerys’ breath catches. She nearly stumbles when Sansa looks at her. 

Missandei and Jorah nudge her along, and Daenerys’ steps are strong and bold as she strides towards her bride. She shakes underneath her dress.

The Stark family stands on both sides of a small platform where the robed man with the raven message waits with a sheaf of paper and a thick tome. Behind Sansa wait Ned, Catelyn, and Arya with the sigil of their House emblazoned across dark fur cloaks. Robb, Jon, and Bran gather opposite them just behind where Daenerys assumes she goes.

Robb leans over as she approaches, whispering, “We know you don’t have any family here. That’s why we stand in place of them.”

Daenerys nods, throat tightening. She meets Jon's eyes who inclines his head before glancing away. She reaches her spot and turns to face Sansa, swallowing at the sight of her future wife. 

Daenerys hears Robb chuckle to her side, and something presses into her fingers. She glances aside to see the eldest Stark heir passing a crown of winter roses, bright and blue, into Daenerys’ arms. He winks. “In the south, I hear the knights who win tourneys often give these crowns to the lady they find the most astounding—proclaiming them to be their queens of love and beauty.” He glances at Sansa watching them. “I thought yours would appreciate it.”

“I see.” Daenerys trembles with the weight of his gift. “I—”

Maester Luwin raises his hands, and the silence falls over the crowd, snuffing out whispers and chatter. “The ceremony is about to commence, but, first, we must get the brides to sign the marriage contract.” He holds out the thick package of papers, and Daenerys sighs even as Sansa reaches out to start signing. 

After the papers are completed, they are shuffled off by one of the maester’s apprentices as Luwin flips open the tome and begins reading a segment from the old gods. Daenerys keeps her frown at bay as everyone watches him, rapt. These gods are not hers, but they are Sansa’s as her bride stares at the maester with a fierce expression. Daenerys decides to listen and watch Maester Luwin intertwine Sansa’s and her hands, wrapping a light scarf around their wrists. Sansa squeezes, and Daenery meets her gaze, in awe of the clarity and resolve in her eyes while Daenerys’ insides tangle themselves as she wonders if this time, she’ll be good enough.

“—say the vows and place the crowns upon each other’s brows.” Maester Luwin looks at both of them.

Sansa turns to her. “I vow to make and keep you mine as I am yours in the eyes of the gods old and new.” 

Daenerys smiles at the fire in Sansa’s eyes, the tremble of her mouth. “I vow the same.”

With that, Sansa bows, and Daenerys remembers that she has a circle of flowers in her hands. Daenerys’ hands shake as she lifts the roses onto Sansa’s hair, like a ring of ice melting onto fire, and Daenerys crowns her queen.

Sansa straightens. She glances down at the ones in her own hands, and Daenerys blinks, hastily bending over so Sansa could return the gesture. The roses aren’t heavy, but she feels their weight more than any words she’s spoken. Sansa watches her in her colours of gold and blue and white, and Daenerys feels like something is off as Luwin moves onto the next part of the ceremony.

“Wait.” Daenerys turns to grab roses the colour of fire from Jon’s hands who waits nearby, pretending he isn’t crying by wiping his face into his shoulder. She breaks off the stems and gestures for Sansa to bend down. Sansa complies, and Daenerys’ fingers press and weave red roses along the blue. “Much better,” she whispers as Sansa stands, hair bright from fire and ice.

Sansa steps close, eyes flicking over Daenerys’ face. Her voice comes out low. “We belong to no kingdom but our own.”

Daenerys shivers.

Maester Luwin points to the heart tree ahead of them. “Go and approach the tree to see if the old gods will accept you.”

Daenerys stares at the carved wooden face before she approaches the heart tree again, sweat breaking out on her forehead at the same spot as last time. Sansa glances at her, then at the distance to the tree before stopping and kneeling. Daenerys starts before she drops to her knees as Sansa whispers a prayer under her breath. The magic builds up in her limbs again, tight and uncertain. It asks her a question to which she has no answer, only a prayer. After what feels like ages with her forehead pressed to the ground, to the snow, the tightness dissipates somewhat, and Daenerys sighs, sitting up.

Sansa has a strange look on her face but rises and helps Daenerys to her feet. The maester is finishing the last of the ceremony when Sansa leans down just as Daenerys drives up. Daenerys vaguely hears the cheering and clapping around them at their kiss, but when Sansa moves to cup her face, Daenerys presses further into her, aware of every tiny gasp, every subtle shift in the woman connected to her.

There’s someone clearing their throat repeatedly, and Daenerys pulls back, slowly. She wonders if she looks as dazed as Sansa does.

Ned stares hard at Daenerys from behind his daughter. “You can continue later tonight in your wedding chambers. Right now, we have a celebration to start.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to protest when Sansa surges down the road out of the godswood, tugging a surprised Daenerys along by the hand.

“Why so quick?” Daenerys glances at her.

“The faster we can be in the great hall and finish the feast, the faster we can...partake in other festivities.” Sansa looks straight ahead. Her cheeks flush.

The celebrations at the great hall go long into the night, full of food, drink, and music as guests from the lesser houses come to give their happy regards. After a couple of hours when night has fallen, Daenerys glances at her empty goblet, desperate for a refill of wine as yet another second cousin of Sansa’s wishes them well. A line of lords and ladies from the surrounding areas stretch down the hall, some vying for obvious favour and others more genuine. The Starks dispersed into the crowd long ago, mingling and laughing amongst friends and relatives while Daenerys and Sansa sit at the head of the table, still accepting congratulations. Daenerys considers asking for a keg of wine brought to her side when a hand falls on her shoulder, and she looks up into Ned’s face.

“You look like you could use some fresh air. Would you like to join me outside?”

“Yes!” Daenerys settles herself back down after nearly jumping, trying to appear dignified. “I mean, I would be honoured, Lord Stark.”

“Ned.” He smiles slightly before tilting his head toward the stairs leading up to the second landing. “Come.” He holds out a hand to Sansa when she rises. “Sorry, Sansa. I wish to speak to your wife alone.”

Sansa glances at the waiting line of nobles and then back at Daenerys. She looks so betrayed. 

Daenerys waves before she turns forward, bumping into a drunken lord with a receding hairline who grins at her from a bulbous, reddened face. He holds up a goblet of dark ale. “Do you want a bit of wedding advice?” He continues after Daenerys’ curt refusal. “In Yi Ti, they say, ‘Woman with knife is always right.’”

Daenerys glares. The men scuttles off into the crowd at her expression as she ascends the stairs where she proposed to Sansa, shaking her head at the encounter. Ned leads her to the second landing and out, being stopped at a set of wide, wooden doors by a servant who tells him that his wife is looking for him. Ned relays a message to the servant before heading out onto a balcony dusted with snow, a carved railing of iron at its edges.

Jon turns to look at Daenerys and Ned as they approach. He smiles, though it looks sadder, heavier. He looks older than when they last spoke hours ago.

“I have taken more time to consider Lord Stark’s words, and...with the letter he has shown me from Howland Reed, I cannot deny the truth of his words.” Jon runs a hand through his curls. “I suppose my silver hair and purple eyes should have given it away.”

Daenerys doesn’t laugh. “So, what now?”

Ned glances at her. “We support you in this upcoming war and your bid for the Iron Throne. In exchange, you promise Jon protection and name him your heir to continue the Targaryen line. This way, both of you need the other, as a lost Targaryen son can draw much unwanted attention, and you require all the help you can get to repopulate your House.”

Daenerys crosses her arms and glares at Jon. She pauses, mulling over the plan. “It isn’t terrible. As long as you understand that when it comes to the throne—” 

Jon throws up his hands. “How many times do I need to tell you that I don’t want it? I may be Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, but—"

Catelyn’s voice calls out from the doors, and Jon freezes. “Aegon Targaryen? What are you talking about?” She glances between them all. 

Ned turns to his wife, exhaling slowly. “Catelyn. It’s time I tell you the truth about Jon.”

To her credit, Catelyn listens to it all in stride. After Ned finishes, Catelyn crosses her arms, flitting through several expressions that Daenerys recognizes—shock, disbelief, guilt, and, oddly enough, relief. “This is an incredible story. So, you are saying we have been raising the trueborn heir under our household all this time. It is difficult to believe, but I don’t know why you would spin an elaborate tale like this.”

Ned lays a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I would never lie to you.”

“That’s the problem, Ned.” She looks to the side, blinking rapidly. “I thought you had been lying to me the whole time about Jon’s mother when you wouldn’t tell me who she was. It tore at me to think I didn’t have your whole heart, your whole love, because I would always have the physical reminder that you loved her too.”

Catelyn glances at Jon, regret in her face. “But if what you say is true, I have been unfair and unkind to you your entire life.”

Jon inhales, and she continues. “You do not know what it is like when lords and ladies point to your husband’s bastard as an example of how much he honours you, of how much he respects you. Your existence was a reminder that Ned insulted me, betrayed me, loved another woman far more than he loved me if he insisted on bringing up her child in her household. I was right in a sense. Ned loved Lyanna Stark more, as much as a man can for someone who left him behind in this world. But I was wrong as well. 

“Ned has always been honourable to me, and, thus, I should be honourable to you. I’m sorry, Jon.” She bows her head. “Please forgive me.”

Jon chokes, his eyes glistening. “There’s nothing to forgive—“

“There is much,” she corrects. “So, let us start now. You are family, Jon. I know that now, and I should have always known.”

Jon throws his arms around her. Catelyn hugs him back just as fiercely. Daenerys turns away from the scene, giving them privacy as Ned takes her elbow and leads her from the room.

He is silent as he leads them onto a snowy balcony, staring out into the darkness of Winterfell. “My silence has harmed more people than I thought—hurt the people I claim to love. I did not ponder much about how much weight that had on Catelyn’s mind, about how different are the hearts of men and women.” He shakes his head. “Let that be a lesson to you, Lady Stormborn, that the actions we take to protect the ones we cherish may end up hurting them most of all.” A cheer sounds throughout the hall, and Ned starts to head back. “Come. My daughter will wonder where her bride went.”

Sansa steps out from a set of open doors. “No need. I found her.”

Ned glances between the two before inclining his head and returning indoors. From a distance, both Catelyn and Jon sniffle, speaking in low tones as they usher themselves through the door, until only the brides remain on the balcony.

Sansa moves in, peering under her long lashes at Daenerys who admires how they frame her eyes. “You were outside for so long.”

“Yes.” Daenerys turns and gazes out into the courtyards, the walls beyond, Her fingers drift on the snow-covered railing as she glances up at the map of stars above them with the moon bright overhead. She thinks of another marriage she had a lifetime ago.

“What are you thinking about that has you look so sad?” 

“I was thinking of the first marriage I had, and how different things are now than when I was a girl lost in the Dothraki Sea.” Sansa presses up against her, and Daenerys sighs, leaning into her warmth. “I’m glad I can finally do this.”

Sansa hums, wrapping her arms around Daenerys, nuzzling into her hair. “Whatever led you this way to me was worth the journey.”

Daenerys smiles. “Were you waiting for marriage to be this affectionate, or is it the ale?”

“A little of both,” Sansa murmurs into her hair. She presses kisses into Daenerys’ hair, her braids. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

“Oh,” Daenerys breathes. “Well, that explains why you were so jealous of Jon.”

Sansa snorts. “Jon knows nothing of women.” Her hands wander across Daenerys’ stomach, her hips. 

Daenerys arches into the touch. “And you do?”

Sansa pauses before she reaches around Daenerys’ hip and cups the crux of her legs through her dress. Daenerys nearly jumps, thought fleeing her head as she splutters, heat rushing to her face and somewhere else. “W-what are you—“ 

“This is mine now, isn’t it?” Sansa nips at Daenerys’ ear, tugging on an earlobe with her teeth, breath warm on the side of Daenerys’ face. Sansa strokes her again, a long, slow motion that has her wife biting back a whimper. “I am feeling famished for something other than the feast. Would you like to retire to our chambers?”

Daenerys exhales shakily and nods. Sansa turns her around and holds her hand, grinning wolfishly as she leads them back into the great hall and out.

She lets Sansa take her to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was definitely a more complex chapter to write, so it took some more time than expected. For future ones with heavier topics, it might be wise to expect a delay in posting speed.


	8. The Bedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Sansa make it to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Halifax for all of her hard work and sacrifice in helping shape the story to what it is now.
> 
> Halifax: "How do I beta-read a sex scene?"
> 
> Note: I had to up the rating because of this chapter. I think you know what to expect.

The northern nobles approach the ladies, the Stark brothers standing far away with Ned and Catelyn, hesitant about how to proceed with the bedding ceremony when Daenerys snarls as Sansa drags her by. The men leap back in fright.

Ned clears his throat when the lords look at him. “I don’t think a bedding ceremony to check for consummation will be necessary.”

Theon calls out from a bench as Sansa and Daenerys exit the hall, a servant girl leaning on him. “It’s customary for us to help you undress for your wedding night!”

Daenerys snaps, “I have no time for clumsy fumbling.”

Sansa yanks her through the door as Daenerys watches Theon’s mouth drop, and the servants around him guffaw. The new wives march at a furious pace to the keep, and it’s only when they pass through the doors that Daenerys wonders where they’re going.

“Sansa, wh—”

“My chambers.” Sansa tugs Daenerys forward as they run upstairs to her quarters. “Quickly.”

A few guards still stand at their posts, and a couple smirk at the pair as they pass. Sansa reaches her doors and shoves right through with her shoulder.

Sansa’s chambers are decorated in beds of flowers, hanging in beautiful lines from her bed posts where Daenerys’ things have been moved to the foot of the bed. Not that Daenerys notices more, since her wife slams her against the door the moment they enter. Daenerys blinks, back against polished wood when Sansa presses her body against hers, running her long fingers through Daenerys’s hair. Sansa kisses her roughly, greedily, and Daenerys returns the fervour, her hands sliding down Sansa’s back. She curses at the thickness of the dress, wishing she could shred it with her fingers.

Sansa feels the same if her impatience is any indication. She breaks the kiss, nearly tearing at her own clothing, and Daenerys reaches behind her to help. 

“This is getting difficult,” Daenerys huffs, trying to unlace an intricate knot along Sansa’s back while her wife kisses along her neck, running her tongue along Daenerys’ jaw. “You are not making this easier.”

Sansa growls, low in her throat, and Daenerys feels a responding twitch low in her belly. “Definitely not helping. Maybe we should have let the nobles undress us,” Daenerys sighs and steps back. “Cut it off?”

Sansa is reluctant to leave Daenerys’ mouth, but she steps to a side table, yanking open the drawer and pulling out a dagger. Before Daenerys can ask why she has one in the first place, Sansa whirls around and flips her hair over her shoulder, exposing the long lines of her neck.

Questions can wait for later.

Daenerys carefully slips the blade underneath the elaborate lacing and slices through as Sansa sighs, dress dropping to the floor. Sansa turns around, bare to her wife, and Daenerys drops the dagger. She’ll pick it up in the morning. 

Sansa grabs her hands, pulling her towards the bed when Daenerys remembers she’s overdressed for the occasion. She lets out a prayer of gratitude when Sansa loosens her dress easily, Daenerys holding her arms up so her wife can tug it off overhead. Daenerys shakes her hair free, glancing at Sansa to see her eyes darkening, pupils expanding, as Sansa looks up and down her body.

“You are so beautiful.” Sansa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, flush rising as her eyes lingers along Daenerys’ chest, neck, and face. She slides up to her, kissing along Daenerys’ shoulder and neck before pushing into Daenerys with a rough kiss, all tongue and heat. Sansa whines softly, curling an arm around her bride and pulling them closer. Daenerys swallows a moan at the sensation of skin on skin. She’s forgotten how soft women can be. “I can’t get enough of your mouth.”

“I bet—” Daenerys loses her lewd remark when Sansa surges forward, kissing her as she runs her hands over Daenerys’ back. Daenerys breaks the kiss when she runs out of breath, and she draws away, gasping, eyes drawn to the patch of copper hair at the junction of Sansa’s thighs. She reaches out to brush the coarse hairs, and Sansa shivers, pressing into the touch. When Daenerys dips lower, Sansa’s hips buck as she groans against Daenerys’ cheek. Sansa opens her legs wider, and Daenerys smirks at the glistening on her inner thighs. “Should we head to bed?”

Sansa can’t get there fast enough. She sits on her bed and leans backwards, pulling her wife towards her as Daenerys swallows, watching Sansa’s hair fan out behind her like a pool of fire. Daenerys runs a hand down Sansa’s side, her stomach. She checks Sansa’s expression, and when her wife nods, Daenerys trails down her hips, her inner thigh, between her legs.

Sansa bucks and moans so loudly, Daenerys nearly jumps. When Daenerys stops, Sansa lets out a high-pitched whine, rocking her hips for much needed release. Daenerys slides her fingers along her in long, slow strokes that has Sansa making short, guttural sounds as Daenerys teases her, barely avoiding the area that needs the most attention. She goes at a glacial pace, swirling in circles and shapes, pressing hard one moment and feather light the next, and Sansa is almost weeping.

“Daenerys, please.” Sansa’s eyes are shut. Her chest heaves. “Gods, it hurts.” 

Daenerys presses a kiss to Sansa’s neck, her cheek. “Patience. All in good time.” 

Sansa snaps her eyes open, teeth bared. She snatches Daenerys’ hand and slams the palm against herself, gasping and tensing at the sensation. Daenerys raises an eyebrow and obliges her wife, grinding into Sansa in a way that has her writhing into the bed, wrenching the sheets beneath her fingers. Her usual calm composure cracks as she lurches for Daenerys’ touch.

“You look so beautiful when you’re being taken.” Daenerys kisses her neck, leaving a mark with her tongue and teeth as Sansa nearly claws at her wife’s back, eyes rolling back into her head. “It would be a shame for it to end so fast.”

Sansa snarls, “Don’t you dare st—”

Daenerys adjusts the angle of her wrist and pushes two fingers in. Sansa’s body shakes, her mouth opening in a tiny ‘oh.’ Sansa’s breathing grows ragged, and Daenerys watches her expression carefully. “Does it hurt?”

Sansa shakes her head, turning her head away, eyes shut. Daenerys leans in and with her other hand, pulls her wife’s chin back for a gentle kiss. Sansa pulls away, swallowing. “Continue, please.” 

Sansa doesn’t last long as Daenerys moves inside her, twisting her fingers in a way to catch sudden sounds and whines from her wife before she feels Sansa tightening around her. Sansa inhales sharply, her entire body tensing in perfect symphony when Daenerys pauses, and Sansa’s eyes snap open.

“By the love of the old gods, please, Daenerys, keep going. Please.” Sansa writhes, eyes wet with frustrated tears. “Please.” 

Daenerys waits before pressing a kiss to Sansa’s mouth despite her sob before running a fiery trail of tongue and kisses down Sansa’s neck, her chest, her stomach. She nuzzles her nose into the crux of Sansa’s hip, and Sansa widens her legs, nearly shoving Daenerys’ head down to where she needs her the most. “Gods, please.”

Daenerys glances at Sansa’s pained expression. She leans forward, a long trail of her tongue that has Sansa nearly crying. Sansa’s smell is heady, strong, and Daenerys feels heat flaring along her belly like a hot iron at her wife’s taste. She uses her nose, tongue, gentle nips of her teeth while curling her fingers inside her, and Sansa thrashes, her noises climbing into a crazed pitch and fervour before Sansa’s back arches, head falling back, a loud cry escaping her throat. Her hips spasm, and Daenerys keeps a steady pace inside Sansa as the latter trembles, turning red all over. Daenerys gives one final lazy swipe of her tongue while Sansa’s thighs tense, her wife collapsing into the sheets, panting. Daenerys withdraws slowly, and Sansa groans.

Daenerys pulls herself up and over her wife, wiping her face on the bed sheets as she admires the view. Sansa lies naked on her bed, eyes screwed shut, flushed from face to chest, hair tousled across the sheets. Her skin shines with sheen of sweat, a mark on her neck from Daenerys’ mouth, and lips slightly swollen. When Daenerys nudges her, Sansa heaves, breathing a little ragged, her eyes opening like the cracking of deep ice. She looks completely wrecked from Daenerys’ hands and tongue. It is one of the best sights Daenerys has ever seen.

Daenerys lies down and props herself up on one elbow. “How was it?”

Sansa nods, closing her eyes. She shivers and reaches over to Daenerys for warmth, who tucks Sansa’s head into the crook of her own neck, feeling her wife’s breath against her chest. “I’m not done yet,” Sansa murmurs into Daenerys’ skin.

“I certainly hope not. You have a wife to take care of.” 

“Which I plan to do.” Sansa leans up for a kiss, more languid than before. “Once I catch my breath.” 

Daenerys smiles against Sansa’ mouth. “Do hurry up, dear.”

Sansa huffs and pushes Daenerys on her back, who laughs as she rolls over. Daenerys chokes on her laughter when Sansa straddles her, the sheen of sweat of her skin tinged golden by the nearby candlelight. She looks ferocious, like an animal who caught what it wanted.

Sansa leans over her, hunger at the edge of her expression. “Can I take you for a ride, my queen?”

Daenerys’ fingers tighten into the sheets. She nods.

Sansa lowers herself, pressing one thigh between Daenerys’ legs, who hisses. Sansa looks up, but Daenerys covers her face with her hands, somehow feeling shy under Sansa’s gaze. She waves for her wife to go on and when Sansa lowers herself onto Daenerys’ leg, the queen bucks. Sansa burns on her skin like a brand.

“Are you all right?” Sansa pauses. “Do you want me to go slower?”

“No.” Daenerys grits her teeth. “It isn’t my first time.”

“It’s your first time with me.” Sansa kisses a line along Daenerys’ collarbone and presses her thigh higher, earning a twitch of her wife’s hips and a moan. “And mine with you.” She waits, watching until Daenerys swallows and inclines her head for Sansa to continue.

Sansa goes slowly at first while Daenerys pants, staring at the ceiling with every deliberate stroke, the pace an agony onto itself. Sansa watches her face the entire time, and Daenerys feels exposed. She turns her face away, but Sansa grabs her chin and kisses her hard enough that Daenerys forgets to breathe, forgets everything but the woman before her—all heat and pressure and warmth and fire. She grips Sansa’s hair, rising into her with tongue and lips, and Sansa grabs both of her wrists and pins them over Daenerys’ head. She leans, breath hot against Daenerys’ ear. “Looks like I conquered the conqueror.” Daenerys pants and writhes, arching up to kiss Sansa who just keeps out of reach. 

Sansa’s lips curl upwards. “Patience,” she repeats, “All in good time.” 

Daenerys snarls as Sansa lets go of her wrists and grabs onto Daenerys’ hips, digging her thigh even deeper into Daenerys, who cries out, arching upwards, fingers twisting into the sheets as Sansa keeps a relentless pace. Daenerys crescendos, completely at the mercy of Sansa on an uncontrollable swell that raise her, carries her upwards, and she blinks at the crown of its height, suspended in a bed of bliss, and she thinks that she would not mind dying after this one moment. After a second, a lifetime, it passes, and Daenerys collapses onto the bed, weak in her legs and shivering. 

Daenerys opens her eyes as Sansa leans over, smirking. “That was fast.” 

Daenerys shoves at Sansa’s chest, but her wife feels solid like stone. “Can you get off?”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. “I thought the dragon queen had more stamina.” At Daenerys’ huff, she laughs and tumbles off to the side, landing next to her wife. “I’m sure you can satisfy me more in the morning.” 

Daenery shoots her a sharp look. “We’re not done,” she pants. She rolls over onto Sansa, who grins, eyes dropping to half-mast. 

Sansa pulls her closer. “I hope not.” She nips at Daenerys’ ear. “My bed is still intact.” 

Daenerys kisses at her neck, her chest, trailing kisses down Sansa’s skin until she reaches her thigh, and Sansa trembles. “Let’s rectify that, shall we?”

Sansa opens, letting her in, and Daenerys enters.

—

In the morning, Daenerys opens an eye at the sunlight on her face and notices the bedposts are still standing. She’ll have to try harder tonight.

Sansa stirs, nuzzling against her shoulder, and Daenerys smiles, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. She lingers before pulling back, Sansa chasing after her with a whine before her wife opens her eyes.

Sansa smiles, voice slightly hoarse. “Morning.”

Daenerys kisses her, and Sansa reaches up into her hair, pulling her closer. Daenerys gently breaks it, laughing. “You haven’t had enough from yesterday.”

“Never. I waited a week for this.” Sansa props herself on one arm, gazing at Daenerys before biting her lip. “How was...how was last night?”

“Amazing. Wonderful.” Daenerys strokes her wife’s side. “I’m going to be sore for days.”

“I hope not. I had plans.” Sansa runs a hand down to Daenerys’ hips before wincing. “Actually, I’m a little sore myself.”

“And yet the bed is still standing. I disappoint myself.”

Sansa laughs, a pretty, unrestrained sound that Daenerys would like to hear more. “You will have a chance to try again before…” Her face falters. “...before you leave.”

Daenerys glances at Sansa’s expression, the unhappy twist of her mouth. She shuffles closer until she’s pressed against her, warmth against warmth, and Sansa wraps an arm around her hips as if afraid to let her go. “I’m here right now.” She runs a hand along Sansa’s arm, changing the subject when she doesn’t smile. “Are you sure that was your first time?”

“I’m fairly certain,” Sansa replies, dryly. “I have spoken about wedding nights with a friend before at King’s Landing.”

Daenerys pulls back. “A friend only?”

Sansa chuckles. “Yes, only a friend. Did you suddenly forget that I married you, or do you need a repeat of last night to remember?”

“I won’t refuse one if you’re offering.” Daenerys frowns. “Did you speak extensively of what happens between two women with this...friend?”

Sansa’s eyes flicker. “It came out in hints.” She rubs at Daenerys’ back. “Have you taken women to bed before?”

“Yes, but…” Daenerys doesn’t like the idea that Sansa might have. “You are a maiden?”

Sansa tilts her head, lips curling upwards. “You’re usually so composed. It’s strange to see you jealous.”

“I am not—” Daenerys exhales. “If that was your first, you either are a fast learner or exceptionally talented. Not that I would mind either case.”

“Well, thank you,” Sansa almost smirks. “I live in service of my queen.”

Daenerys turns away, feigning impatience. “You’re unbearable.” Her tone is fond. She rolls out of bed, wincing as she stands. She awkwardly walks over to a side table where a crystal pitcher of water and several cups wait on a silver tray. She has to sit down by the time she finishes the short walk, staring at a random spot on the wall. “I may not make to the great hall this morning for breakfast.”

Sansa peers over the top of one pillow, one arm wrapped around it. “Why not?”

“I need some time to recover.” Daenerys tosses her tousled hair over one shoulder. “You know why.”

Sansa buries her smile behind the pillow. 

Daenerys slowly makes it back to the bed with an odd walk, half-shamble and half-waddle, a filled cup in her hand. She hands it to Sansa who drains it. “Someone’s thirsty.”

“Good thing I have you here to quench it.” Sansa looks over, frowning. She strokes Daenerys’ arm, pulling her wife down into her, and Daenerys lets her. “What’s bothering you?”

Daenerys blinks. She exhales and looks away from the bed. “Nothing of consequence.”

Sansa raises an eyebrow. She sits up, sheets falling away, and Daenerys stares at her chest. “We are wedded now. Any secrets between us will weaken the union of our families. What are you thinking of?”

The war. Jon’s parentage. The last time she had a wedding night. “Much, but right now, I would rather think of you.”

Sansa reaches out to stroke Daenerys’ cheek. She sighs and leans into the touch as Sansa’s eyes flick over Daenerys’ face. “What have you been through, my lo—my wife, that has you burdened so?” When Daenerys doesn’t answer, she hums, running her fingers through her wife’s silver-blond hair. “When I first saw you, despite your beautiful coat and regal air, you looked so sad.

“A queen you might be, but you wore your Targaryen title like a crown of chaos, like a shroud of loneliness. You were suffocating on your mantle of misery,” Sansa says, softly. “At least, that’s what I thought. Am I wrong?” 

Daenerys sighs and shakes. “Please not right now. It isn’t the right time.” 

Sansa nods and leans into her wife, wrapping her arms around Daenerys’s waist. “I understand. We have only known each other for over a week, but I...I hope that will be enough to establish trust so that one day, you will feel you can tell me the secrets and scars you bear in your heart.”

Daenerys hums, stroking her wife’s fine red hair. “Of course. One day, but today is not that day.” She nuzzles into Sansa’s strands. “It’s a day for other things.” 

She smiles when she feels Sansa’s snort against her. Her wife murmurs, “You are worse than a man.”

Daenerys laughs, sweeping back hair from the back of Sansa’s neck, her fingers catching on the raised ridge that encircles her nape like a broken collar. She frowns. “What is this?”

Sansa inhales. “Not now, Daenerys.”

Daenerys eyes the scar, sweeping the hair back over it. “You’ll tell me soon, won’t you?”

Sansa glances up. She looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first sex scene I've ever published. Hope you guys uh...enjoyed it.


	9. Mending Fences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys find more answers and secrets about what happened to Sansa last summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Halifax for beta-reading as always.
> 
> Note: I researched bed-breaking incidents for you all.

The day after her wedding, Daenerys goes over the messages Jorah sent to her allies on her behalf. They stand in his room, leaning over a small table with pieces of parchment scattered on its surface on the floor underneath Sansa’s chambers where Daenerys insisted the Starks move her advisors. “Grey Worm knows to come ashore from Dragonstone and to release Viserion and Rhaegal?”

“Yes, I have given him the command to bring the Dothraki and the Unsullied. Your dragons should be flying here as we speak.” Jorah studies her as Daenerys gingerly lowers herself into a chair. “Are you all right, my lady? You are moving rather strangely as if you have been horseback riding for days.”

Daenerys clears her throat. “I am fine. My wife is just very determined to...know me.” She shifts in her seat and immediately grimaces. “Very much so.”

“All right.” Jorah looks like he regrets asking. “As to where to rally your forces…”

They go over a few plans before Jorah wraps up the parchments and waves her protest off. “You are a married woman now, Daenerys. It is customary for newlyweds to spend time together to bond.” 

Daenerys glances at him then away “I have a war to plan.”

Jorah looks at her. “You are not the only one. Lord Stark called a war council to decide when they would ride south. Since many of the lords and ladies came to attend the wedding, he is waiting a couple of days at most for stragglers to arrive.” He reaches out to scribble another message on a piece of paper in front of him.

“But—”

“Besides,” He glances over his shoulder. “If you don’t go to your wife, she will look for you. Better you find her first.”

Daenerys taps her fingers along the table, frowning. “There is still so much to know about each other, and, yet, it feels like I married the Stark of secrets. Even now, it feels like there's a wall between us, but it’s not only on her side.” She glances at Jorah. “Can you build a marriage on secrets?”

Jorah shakes his head. “I have seen none that last like that. Wives don’t automatically trust you just because you married them,” he says, softly. “And they certainly don’t stay loyal if they feel like you are holding something back.”

“She has a scar she will not tell me about.”

He shrugs. “Have you told her about yours?”

Daenerys exhales and looks away. She thinks of Jon. “It’s not the right time.” She looks at Jorah studying her and opens her mouth before closing. “I don’t even know what will happen if I do.”

“That’s the thing, Daenerys. You can’t expect her to extend her trust if you don’t give yours first.” Jorah crosses his arms. “Besides, you do not have as much time together as you think.”

He isn’t wrong. Over the course of the next two days as Daenerys tries to find Jon who disappears like a ghost, Sansa comes seeking her, despite their heavy schedules from Sansa’s household responsibilities and Daenerys’ war planning. Sansa discovers her in various places around Winterfell from the glass gardens to the ramparts easily like a hound picking up a scent in the wind. Sometimes, Sansa comes to talk about things related to the war effort, smiling at Daenerys, eyes glancing at her wife’s mouth before sighing and turning away, turning a wayward lock of fire behind her ear. Other times, when Daenerys is alone in a room, reading, Sansa grows bolder, pressing kisses to the back of Daenerys’ neck as Sansa holds her from behind, sneaking a hand into Daenerys’ dress to cup a breast or somewhere lower. Daenerys’ favourite moments are when Sansa leads her to an abandoned room to take her right on the table or the floor. Of course, these moments are not without consequences. 

On the third day after their wedding, Sansa asks for a break at a dinner alone in their chambers.

Daenerys smirks, leaning over the table. “I thought a northerner like you would have more endurance.” 

Sansa snorts. “I am asking for your benefit. You have been walking awkwardly for days.”

Daenerys pauses. “Is it that obvious?” 

“You are very lucky that they haven’t made ballads of the dragon queen and her strange gait the night after her wedding.”

Daenerys shrugs. “They can jest all they want. It does not mean that I will stop.”

Sansa sighs but gazes at her with fondness. “Your stubbornness will get you into trouble one day.”

“Perhaps.” Daenerys glances down at the table before reaching over to lay her hand on Sansa’s. She pretends her heartbeats don’t rabbit in her ears, her chest. “We haven’t had many moments like this.”

Sansa nods, closing her eyes. “Between my household responsibilities and your strategic planning, we haven’t had many chances to do more than talk about military preparations and…” She flushes. 

“You seem to take full advantage of that.” Daenerys fiddles with her fork. “There are things we should speak about. What the war means for us, your scar—” Sansa’s expression grows guarded, and Daenerys lets go of the utensil, the clatter of metal against the bowl a cacophony in the sudden silence. “I just don’t understand how you can bare your body to me but not your heart.”

Sansa’s face twists with pain. She pushes away her meal. “You think I don’t?” She shakes her head. “Leave it be, Daenerys. You said that you would wait until my words were ready to tell you. Are you someone who keeps their promise?”

Daenerys’ jaw tenses. They say nothing more until they take each other to bed. The next morning, Daenerys finds out that Sansa is not kidding about the jokes.

Theon catches Daenerys as she makes her way to the great hall alone, her wife having risen early to help Lady Stark with the accommodations for all of their guests. “Good morning, Lady Targaryen. How are you feeling this morning?”

Daenerys eyes him. “Well.”

“Excellent.” Theon looks about nonchalantly, smirking. “I hear the same of your wife. Sansa looks very satisfied these days. I hear Lady Catelyn has thrown up her hands in frustration as how often her daughter drifts into daydreams when talking about the household.”

“I’m certain Sansa has just a lot riding on her with all the vassals arriving.”

Theon snickers. “I’m sure she’s been doing lots of riding lately. Speaking of which—“ He grins. “On your wedding night, who rode who?”

Daenerys waves off his comment. “It was a mutual endeavour.”

Theon nods. “So, Sansa rode you then.”

Daenerys kicks at him as Arya arrives around the corner of the building they were passing, one eyebrow raised. Arya nods to Theon. “Can I speak to her alone?”

Theon glances between them, still smirking as he strolls away to the stables. “Of course.”

Arya strides beside her as they both head to the hall, looking straight ahead. “I heard the bed posts are still intact. I’m disappointed. I thought you were a woman of your word.”

“I am working on it. And your sister.”

“Well, do them both quickly, otherwise I am going to lose money soon.”

Daenerys raises an eyebrow. “Why is everyone here so consumed with the happenings of my bed? I never received so much attention in Essos.”

“You don’t get it. A terrible argument with Sansa can leave the North in a war with more than just the Baratheons, and everyone knows that.” Arya shrugs. “Can you blame them for wanting to keep an eye on your marriage?” She tilts her head. “I heard rumours from the keep that you’re a screamer.”

Daenerys shrugs. “You have your sister to thank for that. She can be wild and ferocious in bed.”

Arya grimaces. “Anyway, Sansa’s headboard is a little loose if you are still trying to break something. We dislodged it years ago jumping on her bed.” She shrugs. “I’d figure it would be easier than the bed posts. You could kill a man by swinging one of those monsters.”

Daenerys studies her over her shoulder. “Duly noted.” She goes quiet before glancing away. “With the way things are going, I feel as it is the beginning days of my first marriage all over again.” When Arya glances at her, Daenery shakes her head. “Never mind. Just old memories with no use.”

Sansa’s headboard does not come loose that night, but the sound of splitting wood cracks through the air. One side of the bed crashes to the floor, and Daenerys grabs the headboard and her wife to stop them from falling off. “We should check on that.”

Sansa pants, still red-faced. “No, you should finish what you started.”

A knock sounds at the door followed by the worried voice of a maid. “Is everything all right, my ladies?”

Daenerys pauses as Sansa presses kisses to her neck, her face. “Could you give us a couple of minutes to answer that?”

The giggling the next day at the castle is unbearable as maids, servants, and guards smile and grin at her in turns. Daenerys finds herself swatting Theon as he calls her ‘Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Beds’. Sitting across from Ned and Catelyn at breakfast is worse.

Catelyn glares, lips tightly pressed together. “We will be able to move a new one into your room by noon.”

“Thank you. I did not realize the last was so old. I should have been more delicate with it.”

“Perhaps, you should be more delicate with our daughter!” Catelyn snaps. Besides her, Ned stares at his oats, looking as if he wished he could disappear into the table.

“But she prefers it—“ Daenerys pauses when Sansa slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Mother, this is not the time to talk about it.” Sansa’s face burns as brightly as her hair. “Not when there are more pressing matters to talk about such as the war council.”

Ned jumps in, relief in his expression. “Yes, most of the northern Houses have arrived already.” He frowns. “Some of the families allied with House Tully haven’t responded to our call. House Bolton and Frey have been unusually silent.”

Catelyn places a hand on Ned’s arm. “I can call on them to soothe and strengthen our diplomatic ties if you are worried. It is my House they pledge their allegiance to, and it would be best for a Tully to speak with them.”

Robb glances over. “Do you need me to ride with her, Father? She’ll be safer with me than alone.”

Ned furrows his brows. “It is peculiar. The Bolton’s have been loyal for 300 years. It’s odd for them to not respond.”

Robb peers at his father. “I heard from Jory that some of our men who rode there haven’t returned.”

Ned doesn’t say anything. His frown deepens.

The war council later that afternoon doesn’t go as well as they hoped.

“The dragon queen? That’s who we’re going to battle for? Some tart in your daughter’s bed?” A man in black armour stands from his seat, pointing at her, and Daenerys’s temper flares like a burst of fire. “We are sacrificing our men to—“

“Ser Royce, she is a guest of this House and now a member of our family. If you insult her; you insult House Stark.” Ned’s tone is as cold as the stone around them. “Choose your words wisely, and consider if you wish to continue offending us.”

Ser Royce snaps his mouth shut and sits down, but the lords around him break out in a mutter.

Daenerys rises to speak. “I did not call war on you, but the prince of the south did. You may owe me no love, but, surely, if you have honour in your bones, you have loyalty to your liege lord?” She looks around the room. “Or are you afraid to ride for Ned Stark?”

Some of the men stand, looking ready to draw their swords when Ned leans forward. His voice is quiet, but it pierces through the room. “Are you?” 

Some lords bristle, while others look away. All go silent.

Ned sits back. “I have fought with House Baratheon before in a war against a Targaryen ruler.” His eyes flick towards Daenerys. “This time, I fight with a Targaryen against House Baratheon. Many of you lost much in the last war with the Mad King. Many of you have grievances unforgiven against those of Daenerys’ blood, but none of us are our fathers. She is not hers. Before we cast judgment, is it not right of noble men to give someone a chance to prove who they are rather than condemn them by whom they descend from?”

He glances at Ser Royce. “Shall we judge you by the actions of your great-uncle who failed to meet the call of war twice and was executed for cowardice? Or shall we judge you by your own?”

None of the lords respond. They sit in contemplation, murmurs buzzing through the room. At last, an elderly lady with a crown of curly hair stands from close to the front, dressed in shades of muted red. Ned inclines his head in deference. “Lady Waynwood.”

The lady clears her throat. “I say we have no obligation to bend the knee to the dragon queen, but we have every reason to heed your call as we did your father’s. The Vale would be wise to follow you, Lord Stark. Where you go, our men go too.” She pauses and looks around the room, meeting the gazes of everyone around her. “It is not only you who worry about the Baratheon and the Lannisters in the south, not after the swell of people flooding our lands during the rebellion.”

Daenerys perks. Sansa mentioned this before. “What happened then?” The room glances at her in one united turn, and Daenerys clears her throat. “Forgive me, as I was in Essos at the time and do not always receive news of what happened here.”

Lady Waynwood inhales. “In King’s Landing—“

Ned raises a hand, and she stops. “I will inform Lady Targaryen about the events of last summer. You can aid me by preparing your men to march in two days’ time. All of you.” He raises his eyes, and everyone watches him. “May the old gods keep you safe.”

Daenerys waits at the side of the room as Ned answers as many questions from the lords as he could, almost on her toes. He breaks away at last, gesturing her to follow him along a stone hallway. “I have a place where we can talk in private.”

He leads her along a winding staircase, out across a bridge with snow blowing through the gaps to a lonely tower with a single door, large and aged with the wood starting to discolour. Ned grunts as he shoves open the door and Daenerys steps onto a dusty landing with stairs spiralling up and down, a single track of steps in their centre as if someone walked this path many times. She watches as Ned starts to climb and sighs.

They reach a door with an iron lock, and Ned slips in a key from his pocket to open it. He enters, and Daenerys follows to find herself in a study that looks neat and well-kept, despite the dust specks floating around in the tower. 

Inside of the room, the wall hold the racks of stags and the heads of bears upon wooden plaques, the gleam of the polish dimmed by age. Worn books fill the bookcases beneath the mounted heads, lining the walls until the end of the room where Ned sits at a dark desk, the window behind him stretching from floor to ceiling. Daenerys can see the woods and tiny houses of Winter Town behind him, but the light from the gray skies outside cast Lord Stark’s face in shadows.

Daenerys glances around. “I am surprised at your taste in decor. It seems unlike you.”

Ned stares at his hands, at a tome besides him that looks like it was made in the Age of Heroes. “You are right. This was my brother Brandon’s office. Before him, my father’s.” He gestures to the seat in front of him. “We have much to discuss.” 

Daenerys sits, waiting for Ned to collect his thoughts, the silence in the air gnawing into her nerves as she grips the wooden arms of the chair. When her patience is about to snap, Ned starts to talk. “What do you know of King’s Landing?”

She shifts, crossing one leg over the other. “They have the Iron Throne, and I will take it back.”

Ned shakes his head. “No, what do you know of the people there? Did you know that they have been starving for some time last year ever since Stannis Baratheon won the bread-basket of the land? That there have been many rumours of how the king often leaves his people to go on hunting parties?” He goes quiet.

Daenerys leans in. “Does this have anything to do with what happened to Sansa last summer?”

Ned slowly sinks back into his seat. His eyes grow distant. Daenerys waits, forcing her hands into her lap so he wouldn’t see her wring them. “Prince Joffrey asked for Sansa’s hand last year in the spring and for her to visit him. Catelyn and I said yes to the union of our families to the king’s. Robert has been like my own brother since we were children.” He exhales. “There has been some trouble with deserters from farther up north, so I could not accompany her. Catelyn needed to stay in Winterfell to mind the keep. Sansa insisted that she could go herself, so we sent her south with Septa Mordane and a few of the castle guards.”

He glances at her, wary. “What has Sansa told you of our bonds with...with…”

“Your direwolves? Your family is one of wargs, and the wolves are raised with you from birth.” Daenerys’ eyes flicker. “And Sansa’s is named Lady.”

Ned nods. “Sansa left her behind when she went to King’s Landing. Normally, we go everywhere with our direwolves, but Bran had a bad feeling that if Lady went south, something would happen to her so we kept her here. Given how the south often held wolf-hunting parties for sport and the enjoyment of bored nobles, we thought it wise to heed his caution. A month after Sansa left, Lady woke everyone, howling, tearing at everything she could get her teeth on, and we had to lock her in a cage for her own safety.” He meets her eyes. “ Lady was the most sweet-tempered pup of her litter. She doesn’t bite nor make much noise, but that night, she kept howling, the kinds of sounds that haunt you and make you want to tear your chest apart. I remember watching her shaking in that cage when I realized Lady was crying for Sansa, and something had happened to her.”

He places a hand on his heart. “The bond between direwolf and warg is deep. Often, it is as if either can feel the pain and joy of the other. If Lady was suffering, so was Sansa.” Ned blinks as if slowly waking up from a nightmare. “I rode to King’s Landing with some of my bannermen the moment there was daylight, and we pushed ourselves hard for over a week—barely stopping, barely sleeping—when we came onto the Lannister army blocking passage of the Kingsroad near Darry. There was a rebel faction that rose against Prince Joffrey when Robert went off to one of his hunting parties near Highgarden, protesting the starvation in the city, and they attacked Joffrey in the streets. The queen and prince answered ruthlessly.

“I nearly fought through the guards to get to Sansa, and it was only after a wasted day of arguing that we go through. By the time we arrived, the rebellion was put down, but the castle walls were lined with spikes, heads half-rotting, stripes of flesh that looked like leathered skin attached to them like grotesque capes.. And—“ Ned’s fingers curl tightly on the table. “—they did not spare the women and children.”

Daenerys feels uncomfortable. 

Ned continues, “I nearly killed Jaime Lannister trying to storm the Red Keep to get to Sansa, but Robert had arrived shortly before I did. He stopped the fight. He just looked at me and said he was sorry. I did not understand why he said that, but when the guards brought Sansa out, she—she was different.”

Daenerys' grip tightens on the arms of her chair. “How?”

“When she left Winterfell, Sansa sang of princes and weddings. She had been taught the practicalities of running a household, but she burned with romance in her heart. We always found her listening to visiting ladies of their trips down south. She laughed and smiled more. She let others hug her.” He exhales, covering his eyes. “I didn’t know the girl that left King’s Landing with me—one who watched the world like a trapped animal. She told us how Prince Joffrey had decimated the rebels, their families, and all the animals in the area as an example of those who defy the crown. The rebellion was quelled, but she would not speak a word of what occurred that made her go silent.” He taps his nape. “When I retrieved her, Sansa had bandages around her neck, but she would not tell me how that happened either.”

He glances up, desperate. “You are her wife, and it is clear as the moon in the sky that you have Sansa’s affections as no one else before. Perhaps...perhaps, if you ask, she will share what haunts her—the memories she won’t share with her family.”

“I have tried, but she is as silent with me as with you.” Daenerys frowns. “But what does this have to do with what Lady Waynwood said happened in the Vale?”

“All the lands around the city were flooded with fleeing refugees, and rumours had it that the prince had blamed the uprising on skinchangers.” He raises his eyes, and Daenerys shivers at the look at them. “If this is true, that changes the nature of the war. However, only Sansa would be able to confirm this. Septa Mordane and my guards did not return, though no one would say how.” He goes quiet. “Sansa left King’s Landing alone.” 

Quiet descends upon the room. Daenerys rises. “Thank you.” She tugs at her dress. “You have given me much to think about.”

Ned watches her leave, a flicker in his expression. “What do you plan to do?”

Daenerys looks back at him, one hand on the doorframe. “I am going to find answers we both need.”


	10. Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys finds some of her answers and even more questions as she prepares for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Halifax for that you do--for your encouragement and your obsession with all things GoT.

Daenerys searches for Sansa in Catelyn’s chambers but fails to find her. She discovers someone else instead.

At the far end of the room shared by Lord and Lady Stark, Daenerys sees Catelyn staring at her, nostrils flaring, as the Lady of Winterfell sets aside a ledger scribbled with numbers on a table piled with books.

Catelyn raises her chin. “Can I help you?”

“I was looking for Sansa.” 

“You just missed her. She went to the storehouse to count the stock with one of your advisors—the one from Naath.”

“Thank you.” Daenerys turns to leave before she pauses at the door, remembering something she heard on her wedding day. She exhales and turns around. “Actually, I have something to ask you.”

Catelyn’s tone is flat. “We’re out of beds to wreck.”

“That isn’t—“ Daenerys pauses. She bites her tongue to refrain from pointing out Sansa’s contribution. “I actually wanted to ask about something else—about your daughter and what happened to her after King’s Landing.”

Catelyn straightens up. When she doesn’t say anything, Daenerys continues. “It’s been difficult to get her to open up about her experiences last summer, and I...” She swallows under Catelyn’s sharp study. “I am concerned for her, for our marriage. I don’t know if we can build one on so many secrets.”

Catelyn exhales slowly and turns to look out the window. “You can build a happy one that lasts, but there will always be a part of you wondering, doubting, if you don’t speak aloud and resolve the worries on your heart.” Her tone softens. She stares out into the overcast sky. “I don’t know how to help Sansa. I tried everything—talking to her, giving her space, keeping her occupied, but Sansa kept silent like a stone.”

Catelyn drifts into thought, and Daenerys senses that she should take a seat, so she steps forward and slides herself into one. “Sansa has a lovely voice, but I haven’t heard her sing a note since she left for the South. When she returned from King’s Landing, she was always on edge, as if a single movement could send her into a panicked fury. She twitched whenever Prince Joffrey’s name was brought and kept retreating to her room, never saying why. She stopped sleeping at night. She stopped smiling.”

Catelyn wipes at her eyes, and Daenerys discreetly looks away. “I didn’t know what was wrong with her, and Sansa wouldn’t tell us. Ned and I could get nothing out of Robert or his family.” She glances up, hands wringing. “If you could get her to speak about it, we’d be forever in your debt.”

Daenerys shifts. “I don’t know if she will.”

“Child, of course she will.” Catelyn relaxes, eyes softening. “She chose you. She did it for a reason. Never underestimate the hearts of women.”

Daenerys shakes her head. “I don’t understand.”

Catelyn looks faintly amused. “You never had a wife before, have you?”

“No.” Daenerys looks at her hands. “I...I had a husband once and a stillborn child.”

Catelyn frowns. She leans forward, waiting and watching Daenerys who gathers her breath. 

“I was sold to him for an army—my brother’s army, and my first month with him was cruel, painful until a...a friend taught me how to please him and myself.” She glances at Catelyn, who listens, not saying anything. “I grew to love him, and he returned it in kind. But just as our child would be born, he died, and so did our son.” Daenerys stares at her fingers, vision blurring. “I haven’t loved someone since.”

“Not even Sansa?” Catelyn asks, gently.

“I—“ Daenerys clutches at her dress. 

Catelyn clucks her tongue and reaches out, placing a hand on Daenerys’. Hers look so much like Sansa’s but a little thinner, rippling with veins underneath the skin from frequent use. “A loveless marriage hurts women far more than men. If this is the situation you are in, you would do well to fix it quickly.” She sits back, withdrawing, and Daenerys misses the touch. “But given what I have witnessed, I doubt this is the case for you and my daughter. Sansa’s feelings can be seen by a blind man. Yours, however, are more obscured.”

Daenerys glances up. “What?”

Catelyn tilts her head in the manner that all Starks do. Daenerys wonders if she will pick that up too. “Have you ever paused to consider where you are going and why? It seems that you are the type of person who throws themselves into storms as if they hoped to find peace.” She leans forward, chin resting in her hand as she studies Daenerys’ face. She looks remarkably like her eldest daughter. “Where do you come from, Daenerys Stormborn, and where are you going? Do you plan to die the same way you arrived?”

Daenerys’ fingers tighten on the wool beneath them. “I know not what you mean.”

Catelyn peers at her, eyes dropping to Daenerys’ hands in her lap. She straightens up and leans back. “It’s a matter you will have to journey through yourself.” When Daenerys doesn’t respond, Catelyn does. “I know something of loss. My first love was killed by your father.”

Daenerys flinches. “I’m sorry.”

Catelyn surveys her coolly. “You have nothing to apologize for. You were not even born.” She crosses one ankle over the other. “Brandon was a Stark through-and-through. The Wild Wolf they called him, and he was more dashing and handsome than Ned. He desired blood and victory more than his own head, and his death by Aerys’ hands was gruesome. Ned, for his part, took me as his wife dutifully enough, but in his eyes, I could see that he still thought of me as his brother’s betrothed first.

“I grew up in the South with green summers and blue rivers, and I did not always like being here. I learned to love it as I did my new husband and family. After a while, the North grows on you.” Catelyn meets Daenerys’ eyes. “Had Brandon lived, my life would be vastly different, but I would not have the children I have now and you would have never met Sansa. It is one thing to grieve as one should do for her betrothed or spouse, but it is another to use their death as an excuse to not move on as any loving person would want you to do.

“That is not to say your path has been easy nor kind. It is a monstrously cruel thing to lose a child. I do not know what I would do if I saw one of mine die in front of my eyes.” Catelyn reaches out to cover Daenerys’ shaking hands with her own. “But remember where you are. You are not alone.You can grieve with me as one mother to another.”

Daenerys shuts her eyes, heat beneath the lids, and she feels Catelyn pull her into a hug. Lady Stark smells similar but not like Sansa at the same time—like roses with a hint of leather and iron beneath. Daenerys doesn’t cry. She swears she doesn’t, even as she buries her face into the crook of Catelyn’s shoulder, into her fur shawl. Catelyn hums a gentle, slow tune that sounds of lazy days in the river and of family far away as she strokes Daenerys’ back. When Daenerys stops shivering, Catelyn gently pushes her away and presses a kiss to the younger woman’s forehead. Daenerys wonders if this is what having a mother is like.

Catelyn lets go, her tone a soothing murmur. “You may not be able to get back the family you lost, but you can always build anew.” She stands, and Daenerys rises as well. “Now, you were looking for my daughter to talk to, yes?” She politely looks away as Daenerys wipes at her face, heading towards the door. “I would advise to share your heart as you did with me, and she will respond. She’d be stone-hearted not to.”

Daenerys glances back just as she exits. “What about Jon and—“

“That’s another talk for another time. One last thing though,” Catelyn calls her, raising her head and studying her, “don’t die in storms of your own creation.”

Before Daenerys can ask what that means, Catelyn closes the door. Daenerys stares at the dark wood before turning around to find her wife.

The storehouse is located close to the kitchens, just inside of Hunter’s Gate. Daenerys startles the guards outside when she ducks in and makes her way to find Sansa and Missandei in a sea of wooden boxes and kegs that stretches far to the back. 

“Good afternoon, Daenerys.” Missandei steps out from around a crate. “Sansa asked me to help with the inventory for the food, and I agreed. I counted 652 potatoes, and I still have 23 barrels to go.”

Daenerys looks into her friend’s face. Missandei’s eyes say, “Please save me.”

Sansa frowns, an open ledger in her arms and a smidge of flour somehow smeared on her cheek. “If Daenerys can help, we can finish the task faster.” Her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows, and Daenerys stares. 

Missandei peers at Daenerys’s expression before glancing at Sansa. She dusts off the front of her dress. “Excuse me, Lady Sansa. It looks like your wife has something to speak with you about.”

Daenerys nods when Missandei rushes by, relief clear on her face. Sansa gazes after the departing woman before sighing and placing her book on a nearby box. “Whatever it is that has you search for me must be important. Shall we take a walk to somewhere more private?”

They leave for the glass gardens nearby, Sansa winding her arm around Daenerys’, her expression brighter than it had been in the storehouse. Her steps are quicker, lighter.

Daenerys notices. “Are you that much happier to not count stock?” To be honest, Daenerys would be too.

“No, that’s not what is making me feel—“ Sansa inhales and turns her face way. “We’re here.” She opens the door for both of them, and they step into the humid air, heat slapping Daenerys’ face.

They shed their coats very quickly as Sansa leads them down a different aisle than the one before.

Daenerys gazes at the variety of flowers on either side of them, bunches of colour like pockets full of gems. “What kinds are these?”

“These ones?” Sansa brushes against the flowers alongside them, fingers trailing the petals, red and white mixed together. “Cyclamens.” She touches another kind of a soft pink. “Carnations.” A purple one this time. “Hyacinths.” 

Daenerys eyes Sansa. “Which one is your favourite?”

Sansa glances back. “Violets.”

“Do they mean anything?”

Sansa pauses. “They’re all quite sad.”

“Even yours?”

Sansa looks at Daenerys, expression softening. “No.” She waits for Daenerys to catch up, slipping her hand into hers and leading her wife forward. Sansa guides them to another bench surrounded by roses the colour of split blood as if they bloom only on the battlefield. They seat themselves, Sansa trailing her gaze on Daenerys’ eyes, her lips. She leans in, covering her wife’s hand with her own just like Catelyn did shortly before, and Daenerys’ throat tightens. She wonders if Stark women are born with a strong sense to comfort.

“What is it?” Sansa’s eyes flick all over Daenerys’ face, taking in each line. “What has got you so upset?”

Daenerys inhales. She pulls her hands away, tucking them together on her lap. Sansa’s expression shifts slightly, but for a second, Daenerys thinks she sees pain. She starts. “I haven’t told you much about myself, and I received some wise counsel that it might be the best way to build a bond in a marriage by acting first.” She tenses before exhaling. ”This isn’t my first marriage. I have lost my husband and my child years ago when I was a girl sold to a strange man for an army.”

Sansa’s mouth opens and then closes as if she has no reply. From her expression, she clearly isn’t expecting that. Sansa shifts closer, and Daenerys lets her, continuing on. 

“My husband grew ill after a terrible wound he suffered from a fight, and his men began to desert him. I…I listened to a witch who promised me she could save him, but she took my son and future children from me instead. She took my husband away.” Daenerys chokes, and Sansa strokes her back, murmuring soothing words. “I killed him, because seeing him like how she left him was worse than if he died. I burned her for her treachery, and in my child’s place, I gave life to my dragons—my children when I could not have any more of my own.”

Daenerys stares at her hands. “For the longest time, I thought I was a failure. The last of the Targaryens, and I could not longer bear any heirs. I was useless as a woman was what I thought. With the birth of my three dragons, I realized that I was wrong, very much so. I could bring justice and end slavery, regardless if I cannot have children. I could command the Dothraki and beasts they can wipe out entire armies. I rose from a scared girl used by the world to someone who could use the world to do good.” Daenerys raises her gaze, meeting Sansa’s. “And then I met you.”

Sansa kisses her, soft and reassuring. It is nothing like the ones they share in bed, but it makes Daenerys lose her breath all the same. When Sansa pulls away, she keeps close, cradling her palms on either side of Daenerys’ cheeks. “I am sorry to hear of your losses, the pain you’ve endured. I meant it when I said that the journey you took to reach me was worth it, but I can see you have many shadows harbouring in your heart, many doubts. I hope that over time, I can soothe them, sing them to sleep.” Her eyes flicker over Daenerys’ face. “As maybe one day you’ll do for mine.”

Daenerys holds her breath, and in that moment when she wants to press forward, she recalls how Catelyn had listened to her earlier in the grey light of day, patient, open, and she does the most painful thing she can do. She waits.

Sansa licks her dry lips and looks away, gaze somewhere in a distance where Daenerys can’t reach her. “I suppose if you told me about your past, I can share a little of mine.” She takes a breath. “I spent my entire life in Winterfell, in the North, and I have wasted days begging my father and mother to take me south to see the courts, the princes and princesses in the fine splendour of their clothes, the courtly manner of the king’s inner sanctum. Father said no every time, feeling uneasy at the thought of sending me to King’s Landing for some reason, and it was only when Prince Joffrey’s request came in last year that he relented. As you know, to refuse and offend a prince can lead to war.” She meets Daenerys’ eyes. “You mentioned that I should have been married three times over. You are correct. I have had many offers for my hand from lords and the sons of lords as I grew older. At some point, the letters almost came in a deluge,” Sansa sighs. “But Mother and Father refused as well as they could each time. It just never felt like the right proposal.”

Daenerys studies the curve of Sansa’s cheekbones, the blue of her eyes like water under a frozen lake. She doesn’t blame the lords for trying. “Until now?”

Sansa smiles, warmer than Daenerys expects, and the queen would be lying if she said she doesn’t feel a jolt in her chest, fingers frantically smoothing out her dress. “I had to go through the prince’s proposal to get to you.” She turns away, playing with the peeling petals of a rose nearby that’s already starting to die. “I went to King’s Landing at my insistence to meet my betrothed. I was ecstatic to finally meet the prince of my dreams. Joffrey was charming enough when everyone was looking, but it was hard for him to hide the spiteful look in his eyes. He sneered frequently and was consistently beaten in combat by the knights-in-training. He was beautiful but had nothing of beauty inside of him. It only took three days for my dream to fall apart when I saw him nail a pregnant cat to a door.” 

Daenerys’ jaw tightens. “I promise once I see him, he will also know the pleasure.”

Sansa squeezes her hand. “That’s not the only thing he did.”

“I know. He massacred his people and tried to blame the failings of his ruling on skinchangers.”

Sansa pulls her hands away, tearing her fingers through her hair. “Worse. When the rebellion started, people had been starving. King Robert’s lavish lifestyle severely bankrupt the crown, and the king repaid his debts with heavy taxes on his people. Combined with Stannis Baratheon’s recent control over the Reach and his argument with the king about how the kingdom should be run, it’s no surprise that food prices rose so high that most people couldn’t afford the meat and grain that came in.” Sansa places a finger on her lips, brows drawn in thought. “That isn’t the only reason, but I have not quite figured out what else had fanned the fire so badly.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “You must have spent your time in court listening to the advisors.”

Sansa laughs, flat. “No, rather I was confined to spending time with Tyrion Lannister when Joffrey was not with me as a means to control us both.” At Daenerys’ puzzled glance, she elaborated. “Tyrion is the youngest Lannister of his generation and the most hated in his own family. He is plagued with small stature but gifted with genius, and he talks much about politics and economics after a bottle of wine. I suppose I must have picked something up from him,” Sansa remarks, dryly. “For all of his debauchery, he did teach me how to debate soundly and think shrewdly for which I am grateful.” She shakes her head. “But this is not a story about him.

“After an age of starvation, people rioted for weeks in the hot summer sun, pushing back at different districts, and the king responded with force and pleading in turns. When it quieted down, the king went out a hunting trip near Highgarden, and the rebels rose. They attacked the prince and queen in the streets, throwing dung and debris. Joffrey was hit in the face, and he lost his temper. He ordered the rioters captured and executed along with their families. He did not even spare the animals caught in the vicinity.”

Sansa touches the back of her neck. “I—“ She tenses, shoulders bunching up to her ears, and Daenerys reaches for her wife’s hand. Sansa squeezes but doesn’t meet her eyes. “King Robert came back and stopped the executions, but the damage had been done to the Baratheons’ reputation. To remedy it, the master of coin and the spymaster planted seeds that it was the fault of skinchangers who wanted to take over the throne, their fault for the starvation and for pushing the prince to such violent means.” 

“It fooled little but the most blinded followers, some of which happen to be very powerful.” Sansa raises her head. “Do you want to know the biggest secret? The Lannisters are no longer wealthy. Their gold mines have run out. They could not repay their debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos, and what Braavos does not get back, it takes by funding a conqueror for the land.” She rests her chin on her hand. “Strange that it wasn’t you who was sponsored.”

Daenerys mutters, “I must have misplaced my invitation.” She raises Sansa’s hand to her mouth, kissing the rise of each knuckle as Sansa’s breaths grow shallow. “You will make a wonderful historian one day with your gift for stories and detail. However, that was not what catches my attention..” She meets her wife’s gaze. “What happened to you in King’s Landing, my wife?”

Sansa tenses, her jaw tightening until it looks solid like porcelain. Her breathing shortens, like panicked puffs of air, and her hand crushes Daenerys’ own. There’s a glassy look in her eyes, a disturbing wet sheen, sweet on her brow, and Daenerys’ pulling Sansa into her, regretting every second of the last thing she said.

“I’m sorry, Sansa. You don’t need to say a single word,” Daenerys whispers as Sansa buries her face into silver-blonde hair, breathing hot and ragged against Daenerys’s neck. Sansa shakes, and Daenerys keeps her close, feeling the dampness on her skin where Sansa’s face rests, the erratic thumps of her heartbeat like a rabbit caught in a snare. She wishes she could personally kill everyone who hurt Sansa so badly. “You don’t ever have to share with me what happened.”

Daenerys will probably die never knowing the secret behind the scar

Sansa pushes her away, hands shaking. “I don’t want you to see me like this. Like—“

“A strong woman who survived such hardships?” Daenerys murmurs, pain in her chest at the glimmer of tears on Sansa’s lashes. “A queen to call my own? It doesn’t matter what has happened to you. I will l—care for you anyway.” Her heartbeat thrums, loud in her ears, as a waiting thought clicks into place.

Her wife glances up at her before she returns to Daenerys’ embrace. Sansa sinks into her skin, her heart. Daenerys throbs, so terribly in love with her wife and uncertain of what to do. 

After some time, Sansa releases her, hiccuping softly. She wipes at her eyes. “One day, I will tell you.” She looks at Daenerys. “Maybe when you return victorious from your war.”

Daenerys leans in with a kiss that’s far gentler than anything else they’ve shared. “I’ll hold you to that when I come back.”

Something flits across Sansa’s face. She looks sad.

Daenerys and Sansa leave the glass gardens, and Sansa stops a guard on their rounds to send a message to Catelyn that she will be retiring for the rest of the day. Sansa takes her to their chambers where they bathe and climb into bed, into each other’s arms where they stroke each other’s hair and face. Their voices carry softly and gently into the room, and they fall asleep late into the night.

When Daenerys wakes on her last day in Winterfell, Sansa sits up from their bed, stoned-faced.

Sansa plucks at something on their blanket, voice calm. “Before you go tomorrow, perhaps you should speak with Bran. He may have something to guide you. He has said as much to me.”

Daenerys cautiously presses a kiss to her wife’s brow. “And what will you be doing?”

“I will help my father organize his supplies. The army from the rest of bannermen will arrive tomorrow, and they need to be ready to leave at his call.” She exhales and turns away. “Go, Daenerys. Go seek what my brother has to say to you.”

Daenerys leaves, looking back at Sansa waiting alone on their bed, eyes downcast, the glimmer of something wet on her lashes. She considers staying as she closes the door behind her, but her feet move regardless of her wishes as if on a path of their own. 

On instinct, she heads to the library tower and finds Bran sitting at a table, fingers laced together as if waiting. She faces him. “Did you know?”

“That you would marry Sansa? That it would lead to war?” Bran tilts his head. “Yes, but there are many other ways it could have played out.”

Daenerys approaches him slowly. “In what ways?”

The table between them lies laden with books of dark dragons and silver-haired warriors etched across their covers. One tome has a picture of king standing before a city on fire, and Daenerys stares. Bran pushes the book towards her. “Aerys II Targaryen.”

She glances up, sharply. “You think I will end up like him?” Her voice comes out tight. “For what reason?”

Bran shrugs. “It could be possible that all your losses up to now will overwhelm your senses.”

“That is nonsense. Other people have lost as much as me and still end up with their honour. Your father, for one example.” Daenerys clenches her fists. “Me going mad is as unlikely as you becoming king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“My goal is not to provoke you, sister of mine, but to make you consider what might happen.” Bran asks, “What if you go mad like your father?”

Daenerys clenches her teeth. “Is that what you see for me?”

Bran’s eyes flicker, green for an instant. “Perhaps.” He shakes his head. “You, Daenerys Targaryen, live on the edge of a coin with many things that will come up to influence which way it falls.” He looks sad. “Madness or greatness—that is how it will always end with you.”

Daenerys stares. “What happens if I go mad?”

Bran tilts his head the other way now. He stays silent for a long while. “Then, someone you trust will have to stop you.”

Bran doesn’t say anymore after that, and Daenerys leaves with heavy thoughts weighing her down. She spends the rest of her day coordinating her forces with the Starks and writing a letter to Grey Worm to meet them at Harrenhal once he comes ashore. She arranges her spies, her allies, and when at last she could plan no more, she strolls down to the godswood where she finds Ned cleaning his greatsword underneath the heart tree. She approaches as he looks up, stepping closer than before when the force of the North slows her movements like iron boots, and Daenerys stops some distance away. She’s closer than before. “Have you come to pray as well?”

“I always do before I leave for battle.” He sets his sword and cloth upon his lap. “Do you need to clear your thoughts?”

Daenerys sits down in lieu of replying. She leans forward, brows furrowing. “Tell me of my father and how he went mad. How did he die? My brother left that part out whenever he spun tales of our family’s glory.”

Ned narrows his eyes. “Why are you asking? Are you concerned that—“

Daenerys tosses her head back, laughing something dry and bitter. “Shouldn’t I, Lord Stark? Haven’t you heard of what happens to Targaryens born on the wrong side of the coin?”

“I don’t need to. I lived it. That does not answer the question of why you are asking.”

Daenerys runs her fingers through her hair. “Do you truly believe that we are not our fathers?”

“I see.” Ned exhales, a long breath. “If you must know the truth, your father started off benevolent but descended into insanity. His wife, your mother, remained a kind woman married to a cruel man as far as the courts knew. Your brother Rhaegar was considered one of the most honourable and greatest men of the land, and many still consider it a tragedy that he did not step up to depose the king when he could.” His fingers tap along the cold edge of his blade. “I entered the keep and saw your father’s own Kingsguard sitting on the Iron throne, your father’s body on the steps in front of him in a pool of his own blood. A man who slays his own king for power is worse than the corrupted crown.”

Daenerys whispers, “Who killed him?”

“Jaime Lannister, the uncle of the current king.” 

“Yet another reason why I must march south.”

“Why we must do so.” Ned looks at her, his expression softening. “Go and be with Sansa. These kinds of thoughts will not aid you if you dwell on them. They will bring you misery and madness as they did your late father.”

Daenerys leaves him when Ned looks back towards his sword, picking up his cloth once more. She makes her way back to her chambers with Sansa where the latter waits for her, a meal laid out on the table before her. 

“It is customary to spend the evening before a battle with those you treasure—“ Sansa raises her eyebrows in surprise when Daenerys steps in and kisses her hard. “Is something the matter?”

Daenerys shakes her head. “Nothing of importance.” Her fingers tremble as she smooths them on her dress. “Shall we begin supper?”

The dinner passes quietly with Daenerys staring off into the stones, the windows with Sansa sneaking worries glances. Daenerys goes through the motions of undressing, bathing, and getting ready for bed, slipping under the covers while Sansa hesitantly sits on the other side. 

“What is preoccupying you?” Sansa shifts over to close the gap between them, and Daenerys sighs, turning into the warmth of her wife, burying her face against her hip. “You act like you have the world on your shoulders.”

“I started a war that your family might die for. Does that not concern you?”

Sansa strokes her hair. “I am equally guilty of that, because I allowed it to happen. Are...are you regretting the marriage?”

“No.” Daenerys rolls into her back, staring up into Sansa’s face. She thinks of sharing her worries, her burdens, the fear that the madness in her family might creep up on her, the fear of what she might do to Sansa if it did. She asks instead, “Have you thought about our life ahead? Beyond this war?”

“I have.” Sansa cups Daenerys’ cheek, a faint tremor in her voice. “A brood of children, somehow, and many happy years spent in the North, a prosperous nation, and travelling around to visit the people, the different lands, taking back ideas that could help move Westeros forward.” Her eyes soften. “Spending every night and day with you, because I want to. Eating exotic foods with you, seeing sights with you, dancing in great balls in beautiful dresses with you, sharing pleasures of the night with you. Spending my entire life with you.” She ducks her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. “And you? What will you do after you win?” 

Daenerys looks at her. “I would like to take you to Essos and introduce you to your people there.” She turns and kisses Sansa’s palm. “You have gained much through the marriage—more than most women dream of.”

Sansa looks at her. “I know.” Her voice shakes. “I absolutely know.” She rolls herself on top of Daenerys. Her expression looks young, vulnerable. She kisses Daenerys, her arms trembling, before moving away. Sansa flushes, not meeting Daenerys’ gaze. Her voice comes out quietly. “Make love to me, my wife, one last time before you go?”

Daenerys pulls her down, drinking in Sansa through the press of their lips together, listening to the hitch in her wife’s breathing as Daenerys tenderly traces her hand along a winding path on Sansa’s body, seeking to explore all of its secrets. When Daenerys wakes next, moonlight streams through the window in silver streams, and the queen turns in her bed. Sansa slumbers beside her, hair splayed against the pillows, expression relaxed and child-like, and Daenerys wishes for all the power in the world to be able to give Sansa that peace in her waking life as well.

When sleep refuses to come, she tosses off the blankets and quickly dresses herself, heading to one floor below where she knocks on Jorah’s door. He stumbles when he opens it, hair mussed and shirt rumpled, looking at her with confusion. At her expression, he closes the door before re-emerging shortly afterwards, dressed in a fur cloak to match Daenerys’.

They slip out of the great keep, circling around the courtyards until Daenerys finds the set of stairs that lead her to where she is now. Jorah follows closely behind, brows furrowed, but remaining silent until they reach the top of the ramparts. They slip a few times on the snow, in the darkness and shadows of the stone, but when they clear the landing, the world is bathed in silver from the rising moon, the faintest of snow fluttering down.

Daenerys walks over to the edge of the ramparts, leaning out much like Sansa first did when she first saw her. Jorah waits behind her, stamping his feet slightly. He stays silent as Daenerys gazes into the distance, minutes passing by that feel like lifetimes. “Jorah, will you answer me honestly if I ask something dire?”

“I always have. And for the times I did not, I hope I have earned your forgiveness.”

“You have.” Daenerys stares into the darkness, “Tell me, will I return from this?”

Jorah peers at her. “The war?”

Daenerys shakes her head. She falters, licking her dry lips, a stutter in her throat. “I wonder if...if only for a moment, given what’s happened so many times with my family, will I...will I go insane too?”

Jorah straightens. He stares towards the direction of King’s Landing. “It’s your choices that make or break you, Daenerys. Nor your family nor your history,” he says, softly, looking far away. “A great man will not always make a great son, and a terrible father will not always yield a terrible daughter.” He looks at her. “I believe in you. That’s why I follow.”

“If I become like him, will you stop me?”

Jorah’s face contorts. “Daenerys, I—“

“Swear to me, Jorah, not as your queen but as your friend.” Daenerys’ fingers curl up, clenching tightly. “If I go mad, you’ll put a blade in me.”

He blinks, huffing, choking, his eyes glossy with a wet sheen. “I swear if you fall to your House’s curse, I’ll be the one to end you. If you go damned to the seven hells, then I’ll be damned with you.”

Daenerys relaxes. “It’s an impossibly selfish request.” She glances up through her lashes, covered with snowflakes. “But you’re an impossibly kind man.” 

Jorah looks away. His voice comes out hoarse. “What of your wife?”

Daenerys doesn’t look at him. ”She’ll marry again.”

Jorah’s tone is soft. “You know she won’t.”

Daenerys is silent. “May I ask another favour?”

“I will watch her over as my last act to ensure she will be taken care of before I join you.” 

“Thank you.” Daenerys stares straight ahead, to the south, to her destiny. “I don’t know what I would do without you by my side.”

Jorah steps up to the wall, an arm’s length away, but he doesn’t step closer. “And I you.”

They stay like that until the moon rises high in the sky, and Jorah kisses her forehead, bidding her to return to her wife.

In the morning, the mood is solemn. No one speaks at breakfast, and even Arya’s movements are sluggish as she glances at her family, scowling at the bowl of oats in front of her. Daenerys can guess at the source of her ire, but her attention is caught by Sansa stroking her leg, her hip, her back, as if trying to memorize every inch of her by touch. After Ned clears his bowl, he rises and calls everyone to be ready at the gate within the hour, and they split up. Daenerys returns to her chambers to pick up her cloak, and Sansa joins her, having already packed Daenerys' belongings onto the wagon heading south with them. In the scattered sunlight across stone floors, Sansa pushes her on the bed, stealing desperate kisses from the little time they have left.

When Sansa has taken all that she could, she leaves to help with organizing the remainder of the supplies, and Daenerys heads down to the gate where the army waits. Outside Winterfell’s walls, she exhales at the mass of men in black armour on horses, on foot, grim-faced and stretching in a single wide line all the way to Winter Town and beyond.

Lord Stark rides near the front of the column on a magnificent black beast, Robb in his gleaming armour and astride his own horse beside him. To Daenerys’ surprise, Jon and Catelyn are not far from them with the former eyeing his mount.

Daenerys strides over. “You two are coming as well?”

Catelyn glances at Jon. “He insisted on riding to battle with Ned and Robb, and I am only going as far as the Twins to speak with Lord Frey. It is worrying that neither he or Roose Bolton have responded to our call. I will speak with him on the matter while Robb and Jon will drop by the Dreadfort to investigate.”

Daenerys glances at the massive army behind them. “All of you?”

Catelyn shakes her head. “Robb will have a small contingent of soldiers with him while Ned presses towards the south. He is still hoping to somewhat parley with King Robert regarding this war.” Her white mare shuffles, snorting. “We hope that there will be as little bloodshed as possible and that the king can be reasoned with,” she adds softly.

Jon moves in, his horse stopping just shy of Daenerys. “We should stick together. You’re part of my family.” He levels a meaningful look at Daenerys, and she nods in return. “Should something happen to all of us, Bran and Rickon are still at Winterfell, and Sansa and Arya are helping to run the household in Catelyn’s absence.”

Daenerys figures Arya would rather die than count barrels of potatoes, but the girl does seem to have a level head for other matters. “I am lucky to have you by my side, Jon.” 

Jon’s eyes soften, and he reaches down to squeeze her shoulder. Catelyn surveys the interaction, frowning. “I still think that you and Jon would have made a good match.”

Jon shudders and withdraws. “No, those thoughts are over now.”

Catelyn waves off his comment. “The Targaryens are used to those sorts of things.”

A shout breaks from the front, and they all turn to see Ned shouting his speech as his men watch, leaning forward, hands gripping their spears tightly. Jon shakes his head at that. “It’s time.”

Daenerys spots her dragon landing in an empty space near the side of the castle. She makes her way over as the rest of the Starks emerge from the castle, Sansa heading straight for her. 

“You came to say goodbye,” Daenerys tried to lighten the mood with a faint smile. 

Sansa’s mouth trembles. “Of course, I would.” She grabs Daenerys, kissing her fiercely, and Daenerys doesn’t hear anything from the men behind her, not even Theon makes a sound at the scene. “I wish I could ride with you. Arya certainly wishes she could.”

“She’ll get her chance,” Daenerys’ gaze flicks towards the dark-haired girl, Rickon, and Bran bidding farewell to Jon and Catelyn, tight hugs from all of them. She looks back at Sansa. “Will you be safe here?” 

Sansa nods. “Father is leaving behind some soldiers to man the keep. He said in times of war, it is wise to assume that one’s stronghold is never safe.” 

“It is always advantageous to be prepared.” Daenerys glances at Sansa, who walks her over. Drogon raises his head at their approach, blinking at the stranger in his midst. He leans in, tilting his head as Sansa reaches up to awkwardly pat the sharp scales on his brow. 

Sansa shivers. “Gods, he could snap me in half.”

“The dragons of old could easily swallow a man whole, but I would not worry. He’s fond of you.” Daenerys smiles before turning away, her expression dropping. “As am I,” she mumbles, stomach twisting. She begins to climb onto Drogon, pausing when she feels something tug on her sleeve and glances down to see Sansa holding on, looking so sad that Daenerys wants to jump down and stay by her side. But Daenerys needs to go, and Sansa knows.

“Goodbye, wife.” Sansa’s mouth wrenches downwards for a second. “Come back, please.” 

“I will. I promise.”

Sansa turns her head away. “We will see.”

Daenerys pauses for a long moment before she turns and finishes her climb. Drogon straightens up as Sansa backs up to the castle wall while the dragon lumbers towards the trees, a wave of oaths and gasps from the standing army as Drogon leaps, lurching. His wings beat madly, scattering snow and supplies beneath as Daenerys’ world tilts, and Drogon launches them both into the grey skies, a sea of sleeping green and black trees below them. He circles around, and Daenerys rises above Winterfell, glancing at the mass of men below heading south, the tiny flick of red hair watching her leave. She wishes that she could go back to bed with Sansa and sleep there, warm in her arms, in her heart. She wishes they could talk about the future before them, the life they could plan together, instead of the destinies they have to follow. But she knows the moment has passed.

Daenerys goes to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is the end of the first arc, and the next chapter will begin the second one. For the purposes of making it easier to keep everything together, I decided to go longfic rather than sequel.


	11. As I Lay Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys starts her military campaign with goodbyes--more than she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate the concern some of you might have felt without my typical quick updates. I'm not dead, but I've been pretty pressed for time as I'm training for my black stripe test in Taekwondo, building a side-business, and figuring out this how-the-heck-do-people-get-married-thing. Also, as of this week, my work switched my day off, which is when I usually write the bulk of my story, from Monday to Wednesday. In short, updates will most likely be after Wednesday.
> 
> I do apologize if I worried some of you. Given my current schedule, I wanted to give you a head's up that I could only commit to updating once a week. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience. As always, much thanks and love to Halifax for her work as a beta-reader.

Daenerys scouts ahead as the army crawls towards the south below her. Despite her survey, nothing but trees and snow lay ahead of them, and she only circles back when the sun is past the high mark in the sky. When she touches down, the army has settled into a camp with Ned and most of his family gathered underneath a large pine tree. She hops off and sends Drogon off to hunt before joining the others as they discuss battle strategies. A few minutes in, Daenerys tries to make a case for using her Dothraki.

Ned frowns. “Your Dothraki are the most mobile forces we have. On open ground, they’re incredibly valuable. During a siege of the castle, they won’t be much help.”

Daenerys shrugs. “I’ll have my dragons and my Unsullied.”

Jorah glances up. “There might be methods to keep them out of the air. If so, we have to be extremely cautious about how we use them.” His voice softens. “You’re not invincible on Drogon, Daenerys.”

“He helped in Astapor, did he not?” she demands.

“Yes, but this is Westeros. It would be worthwhile for you to remember that.” Ned taps his fingers against a large map. “The main choke point would be the Twins. Catelyn has volunteered to speak with Lord Frey there.”

Jorah studies his face, the gnawing lip. “Are you having doubts about sending your wife there?”

Ned blinks and shakes his head. “No. The Freys have sworn loyalty to the Tullys, and Catelyn is a clever woman. She will be able to handle herself.” He moves his finger down to Highgarden. “The most efficient way to siege a castle is to break their supply lines. The Reach is where they get most of their food, and if we can control the water supply in the city, we would be able to get it to surrender without much bloodshed.”

“If rumours from the south are true that the people haven’t had much food since last year, there is no point in trying to starve a city where people already don’t have food and water.” Jorah shakes his head. “I don’t trust the Tyrells. They have always been very cunning and prone to throw their lot with whoever they suspect might be the victors. They also have a marriage alliance to the Baratheons through the youngest daughter.” Jorah looks up at Daenerys. “Though they did support the Targaryens in the last war. And perhaps, the Baratheons have not been treating them as kindly as they’d hoped.”

“The Tyrells stick closely together. If you can get the support of one of Olenna’s grandchildren, she would be hard pressed to refuse.” Ned rubs his chin. “Perhaps, we can marry Arya to Loras Tyrell to create an alliance.”

Robb exchanges glances with Jon. “Based on the rumours I heard from the south, you won’t have to worry about her chastity in that case, Father.”

Ned gives his son a puzzled look while Daenerys studies the walls of King’s Landing. “We will need battering rams to break down the gates.” She taps a part along the wall. “Or we could do something to bring it down.” 

Jorah frowns. “Unless we distract or get rid of the archers, coming at them with those would be very dangerous. In the past, people have mined underneath walls to cause their collapse, but it would be hard to be conspicuous about it.”

Daenerys points out. “We have dragons to remove the archers.”

Jorah sighs, “A dragon is not a battering ram. Our spies reported that King’s Landing is creating some sort of weapon to bring them down, so unless we know exactly what the weapon is, it’s risky using them.”

Daenerys scoffs. “What could possibly shoot down a dragon?” She pauses. “The people at King’s Landing are unhappy with the Baratheons’ ruling, yes? Couldn’t we rouse them to revolt like we did the slaves in Meereen?”

Ned’s brows furrow. “You would have difficulty to find any that would do so after the way Prince Joffrey put down the last one. That being said, there may be rebels and Targaryen supporters that we can recruit to her cause—allies from unlikely sources.”

“Unless we know their agendas, it’s unwise to trust them.” Jorah looks at her, reminding her softly, “Your actions had consequences in Meereen. That’s why you stayed there for two years.”

Daenerys huffs. She sits away from the map. “There might be some waterways or underground passages that we can sneak our troops through.”

Robb shrugs. “If you find any, let us know.”

Jon looks thoughtfully at Jorah who begins to roll up the map. “You’re part of House Mormont, aren’t you? Couldn’t you just ride over and ask for their help?”

Jorah looks like he would rather die. “I was exiled for selling slaves.” He glances at Ned. “With execution as my sentence.”

“I still would have carried out your punishment had you not been a guest of mine.” Ned meets his gaze. “Depending on how this war ends and how you perform, it may or may not hold true.”

Daenerys places a hand on Jorah’s arm, pushing him behind her. “You are not to kill him.”

Ned’s eyes flicker. “We shall see.” He glances at Jon. “House Mormont has already answered the call and will meet us along the way.”

A shout from one of the men catches their attention, and the group looks up to spot a guard running towards them, slightly too small for his armour. “Lord Stark! Lady Catelyn is departing for the Twins now. She thought you might want to say goodbye.”

“My wife knows me well,” Ned mutters, rising. “We shall adjourn for now and regroup.” He follows the guard, and Robb follows. Jon glances at Daenerys, and after a pause, they head off after them. Daenerys looks back and spots Jorah still sitting underneath the tree, studying another map with a deep frown. 

She leaves him behind.

Catelyn is already mounted on her mare at the head of the camp, a handful of calvary behind her, waiting just past a copse of thick trees. Catelyn smiles faintly when Ned approaches. “Jory mentioned that a small party would be able to travel much faster than an army of 20,000 men. And having your army outside the Twins may send the wrong message.”

Catelyn dismounts, and Ned reaches for her, pulling her into a hug. Daenerys stares as he buries his face in her shoulder. He’s showing more emotion now than in her entire time at Winterfell. “Be safe, my wife.” 

“Always.” She pulls back from Ned and opens her arms for Robb who strides into them. She whispers to him before brushing his curls from his face and kissing his forehead, moving towards Jon who hesitates. 

“I have not been the best mother to you now nor ever, but if you need me, I will be here.” Catelyn steps towards him when Jon rushes in for a hug. When they finish, Catelyn turns to her, surprising Daenerys as Lady Stark nears and lays gentle hands on Daenerys’ shoulders. She presses a light kiss to the younger woman’s forehead. “And you, keep my daughter happy and my family safe. That’s all I ask.”

“I will.” Daenerys’ throat tightens as she watches Catelyn climb back on the horse, dressed in dark furs with the emblem of the Tully fish laid in a silver broach at her throat. Daenerys brings her eyes back to Catelyn’s. “We will talk more once the war is once.”

“I look forward to it.” Catelyn wheels her horse around, smiling. “I will see you all again soon.” She nods to the knight in the lead position who raises his gloved hand to signal the riders forward. As they surge onwards, Catelyn looks back once before turning back to the front. Within a few seconds, they shrink into dark specks on the road before disappearing out of sight around a bend. 

Daenerys feels something cold drop into her stomach, but she brushes off the feeling, whirling on her heels and heading back towards the camp. “We should finish planning our next moves.” Robb and Jon nod, trailing behind her. Ned stares after Catelyn, long after she’s left him, before he also turns to follow. The group reconvenes with Jorah, who announces that taking down the walls would the quickest way to take King’s Landing, short of a truce. After agreeing to decide their next move upon joining Catelyn at the Twins, they head to bed as darkness falls, promising to go over Robb’s plan to meet the Boltons in the morning.

Jon catches her just before Daenerys heads into her tent. He jerks his head towards a patch of trees just outside the camp and heads there while Daenerys follows. When they reach there, having trudged through shin-high snow, Jon squints into the darkness, raising his fingers to his mouth and whistling so shrilly, Daenerys claps her hands over her ears. 

Out of the darkness of the woods, the black shadow of trees, two wolves slink into the moonlight, one that blends in with the snow and the other a grey so dark, it almost seems black. Jon turns to her. “Sansa told me you already know.” He squats, reaching out to scratch at the ear of the white one while its grey brother slips away. “This is Ghost. The other one is Grey Wind. He’s Robb’s.”

“A white direwolf. It suits you.” Daenerys holds out a hand to the wolf who sniffs before turning his head away. “He doesn’t seem to like me much.”

“He’s still deciding.” 

When will the damn Stark magic accept her?

Jon stands. “As much as I wanted you to meet them, I had something more important to give you.” He reaches into his cloak and hands her a small dagger, pommel first with the engraved head of a snarling wolf. “In case you need it.” At Daenerys’ expression, he winks. “If you’re confused, just stick them with the pointy end.”

“I have—”

“You have dragons, I know,” he sighs. “If you ever find them in a position where you don’t have them, better to have this at your side than not.” 

Daenerys turns over the blade, admiring how neatly it fits in her palm. “It’s made for a woman.” 

“A special request to our blacksmith from me.” Jon studies her, growing serious. “Stay safe, Daenerys. You don’t know what may happen to you.”

Daenerys raises her head to meet his gaze. “Thank you. You will be with Robb. The same should be said to you, should it not?”

“I trust him, and we are meeting the Boltons on neutral grounds past the Weeping Water. We plan to cross using a small bridge that has been built in previous times. They have already sent a raven back that they agreed to a discussion.” Jon frowns. “Even so, I would feel more at ease to have you all at my side.” 

“Because of my dragons?” Daenerys remarks wryly and crosses her arms.

Jon blinks. “Because you’re family.”

“You—“ Daenerys’ words stop in her throat. “I’m glad to know that I’m not the only one left.”

Jon sighs, running a hand through his wild hair. “I haven’t accepted it yet. Not in here.” He taps his chest. “I don’t know what this means for us.”

“It means you need to repopulate our House.” Daenerys furrows her brows. “How many wives do you think you will need?”

Jon sputters. “Just one!”

“That poor woman.”

“Not like that!” Jon blushes. “I haven’t—this isn’t the time for that!” He clears his throat. “This is war, and you are our most valuable ally...and a dear friend.”

Daenerys reaches out and squeezes his hand. “Be safe, Jon. I expect to see you and your report again shortly.”

He snorts. “I’ll write it first thing after our meeting with the Boltons.” 

They smile at each other before heading into their respective tents for bed. Despite the thoughts that swirl in her head, Daenerys falls into a deep slumber like the sleep of the dead. In the morning, the camp packs up and readies to leave while Daenerys gathers with Ned and his sons.

Robb and Jon look at each other. Robb glances at his father and Daenerys. “This is where we part.”

Ned mutters a prayer of the old gods over them while Jon nods at Daenerys. He steps forward and squeezes her shoulder. “Remember, if you’re not sure—”

“Yes, yes, with the pointy end.” Daenerys tries to glare. “You have better come back to teach me properly.” 

He chuckles before turning and leaving with Robb to mount their horses. Jorah nudges her when Daenerys gazes after them. “Should we be getting ready as well?”

Daenerys takes a gelding while Drogon goes off to hunt, her advisors to each side of her. Missandei watches her carefully before sliding her mount over. “Are you worried about them? They’re your family after all.”

Daenerys stares straight ahead. She thinks of her conversation with Jon and Ned in the crypts below. “More than you know.”

She and Missandei chat, going over her advisor’s observations while Jorah rides in silent contemplation. As the sun rises above them, something awful and cold crawls up her neck. She shivers, pulling her cloak closer to her, but the tingle tightens like a hand on her throat. Glancing about, she sees no one near enough to touch her, but, still, the feeling lingers like an omen she’s ignoring.

When the party stops to rest a couple of hours later, the chills grow worse, and Daenerys huffs, stomping her feet against packed snow, dread lurking beneath her skin in coils. “Something’s wrong.” 

Jorah glances up from his map. “Are you all right, my lady?”

“I haven’t felt right since we parted from Jon and Robb.” Daenerys mutters, “We shouldn’t have left them.”

He shakes his head. “A simple talk with allies shouldn’t—” He stops and turns, as if called upon from some great instinct, and Daenerys follows his gaze. They spot a column of black smoke rising in the northeast, furiously billowing in a way that has hardened men around her jump to their feet in alarm. Her stomach turns to ice.

Jorah glances at her and pales. “That’s in the direction of the Weeping Water.” 

“I need to head back.” Daenerys peers up to see Drogon coming back, circling around as if reading her mind and landing to the side of the road on a slanted mountainside. She storms through the confused soldiers who stumble and stop. At the head of the column, Ned peers back and frowns. “You ride ahead. I’ll take a look.”

“That’s unwise. We can send a small mounted party instead.” Jorah follows her, Missandei on his heels. “What if it’s an ambush or a trap?” 

“With Drogon, aren’t I the best person to answer?” She reaches her dragon and scrambles up while Jorah shouts for her to stop. She looks down at her advisors below with Ned rapidly approaching. “Jon is part of my family. We should stick together.” She straightens up, keeping her gaze high. “We will meet you at Harrenhal.”

Daenerys orders Drogon to fly, the dragon lumbering forward as the men dive out of his way. Jorah hollers after her while Missandei reaches out, but Daenerys rises into the sky and turns Drogon around to fly to the northeast.

The flight is short and terribly long at the same time. Daenerys leans close to Drogon, keeping her head down as the dragon streaks across the sky, whole forests of trees passing beneath in a few wingbeats, and it still isn’t fast enough. Her knuckles tightened into fists, and she exhales slowly. Jon has to be okay, she tells herself. He’s too much of an idiot to die. 

She repeats it to herself to crowd out the other thoughts.

The thin tunnel of smoke widens into a colossal column when Drogon nears, and Daenerys spots a rushing river winding through tall trees below them, a large fort not too far from its right. A massive bonfire burns at the side of one bank while a rickety bridge built of old wooden planks and aging rope spans from shore to shore. At the centre of the bridge, Jon and Robb fight with frantic slashes of their swords, buffered by their soldiers on either side with Ghost and Grey Wind snapping beside them. Men in armour carrying the sigil of a flayed men on their shields press into them on either side of the bridge, and slowly, the Stark soldiers fall, collapsing onto the bridge or into the white waters below, until only the young Stark sons are left with their direwolves. One enemy soldier rushes at Robb’s back only to have Grey Wind clamps onto his wrist as the man shrieks. It lasts only a moment as another enemy soldier skews the wolf’s belly with a spear, and Grey Wind bites down hard, whipping his head and tearing the hand straight off. Its former owner screams and grabs his stump, stumbling over a body and falling into the river. On the other side of Grey Wind, Robb stumbles to one knee, one hand pressed to his stomach and shaking, the other dropping his sword as he covers his mouth. Grey Wind curls up into himself as the enemy infantryman yanks the spear out, Ghost leaping to tear out the soldier’s throat. 

The wounded direwolf sinks to the planks beneath him as Robb collapses too, steam escaping from the hole in the furry stomach where a thick, red coil spill out. Grey Wind lets out a single whine before laying down his heavy head. He doesn’t get up, and neither does Robb. Jon grabs his brother, howling, as Ghost jumps in front of Grey Wind, snarling so fiercely, the soldiers back away.

Daenerys swings over the banks of the Weeping Waters as the assaulting army freezes at the sight of her dragon, swearing to the old gods. Some drop their weapons, others relieve themselves in conspicuous puddles appearing at their feet, and a few had the brains to scramble backwards. The majority root themselves to their position on the open banks as she growls, low in her throat. “Dracarys.”

Drogon spews fire over the mass of men beneath them, who scream, falling into the snow and desperately beating at the flames, their clothes, before collapsing onto the ground, smoking and still lit. The dragon flies forward, spraying another round onto the men, the trees, black smoke billowing into twisted clouds, worse than the one that came from the bonfire. The infantry scatter, screaming at the sight of Drogon, but the officers standing near the edge of the banks don’t move. Instead, they slink further into the brush, and Daenerys commands Drogon to torch the trees. Even with the fires devouring the woods around them in bright, horrible bursts, flames leaping from branch to branch, the men don’t come out.

Dany shields her eyes with one hand against the smog, skin creeping along her arms and nape as if being tugged the wrong way. Something is off.

She wheels Drogon back towards the bridge as archers dart out from the untouched trees to fire at them, arrows uselessly sailing below. She calls out, and Drogon obliterates them as the rest of the soldiers throw down their swords and shields, bolting down the banks with some diving desperately into the water. 

One man runs, screaming from the flames biting into shoulders and neck, and trips onto the planks of the bridge as he rolls off, but not before the fire catches onto the rope netting. Jon yanks Robb away as the bridge tilts, and Daenerys screams, commanding Drogon to dive as the dragon folds his wings against himself to shoot straight down. Jon spots them, reaching up with a gloved hand towards her as the fire eats at the bridge like a beast, and for one long moment, she meets his gaze—desperate and scared like a young boy, the brother she never had. Daenerys would do anything to save him.

The moment passes, and the rope netting snaps. Jon and Robb tumble into the rushing river, Ghost yelping as he follows while Grey Wind sinks in without a sound. 

They don’t resurface.

Drogon pulls up so sharply from the dive that Daenerys’ neck nearly snaps, but she doesn’t notice. She bellows for him to burn everything. He twists and spews fire on the soldiers along the banks, orange streams of heat and screams annihilating the men in her path, into the air, the trees, uselessly into the water as if fire could retrieve what water took. When her voice grows hoarse and most of the men below her are charred and blackened, she wheels Drogon around to follow the river downstream where Jon and Robb might wash out, but something moves to her right. Daenerys glances over to the treetops where a glimmer of silver shines between the leaves. She ducks, the bolt nearly catching her eye, and curses as she steers Drogon into a roll to avoid the volley that rain upon her, watching as they bounce off of his scales. Fury chokes her, scalding her veins, her thoughts, and she straightens out her dragon even as several arrows barely miss her. 

Daenerys forces Drogon upwards for one last blast when she spots an ugly soldier on the bank below her studying her with a sneer on his face. He grabs at pine branches beside him and hurls them aside, revealing an old ballista nestled into a deep crevice with two men manning the massive machine. They pull back a slider tipped with a single bolt the size of her arm, and Daenerys freezes as they look up at her before they let go.

It fires.

Daenerys presses for Drogon to dodge, and the great dragon twists enough for the bolt to fly by his neck. It slices into Daenerys’ shoulder instead like a brutal blade. 

White-hot fire sinks through Daenerys’ body as she jerks around, her grip ripped away from the force. She tumbles off, world a mess of blue and white as she stares into the sky, a red ribbon trailing from her wounded shoulder like a broken cape, and she wonders why it’s bleeding so much. Her heartbeat thumps in her ears, a ragged pace that sounds like it’s running its last race. Drogon screeches and dives towards her, but the wound burns worse than any flames she’s faced, and Daenerys’ first thought was shock that she had been hit. Her second one was of Sansa, and, oh gods, she was already breaking her promise to her. Daenerys swore she would return, but she could not protect Jon or Robb and she would never ride on Drogon back to Winterfell, see her wife waiting for her with open arms and—

Sansa.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys whispers as she watches Drogon drive down towards her, a black figure against the white sky, and she thinks of how much she is a failure. No child should see their mother die before them. “I’m—“

She blacks out before she hits the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It got dark fast.


	12. To Frighten a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The repercussions of the Boltons' ambush are felt at Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a POV switch for narrative reasons, but I also wanted to warn you guys that there might be some triggering parts for those of you with PTSD. If that is the case, please skip those paragraphs or this chapter altogether.
> 
>  
> 
> Much thanks to Halifax for her feedback and beta-reading as usual.

Sansa pricks her finger on her sewing needle. She watches a bead of blood roll onto the black cloak she’s embroidering for Daenerys.

Frowning, she brings her cut to her mouth, studying the blood-stained silver in her other hand before her gaze travels to the tiny dot on the shoulder of a red dragon. A shiver creeps up her spine like a cold hand on skin, and she stands, feeling uneasy, her chambers too small. She makes her way to the balcony before pausing at her window when she noticed the sudden dark sky, thick and grey overhead like a coming storm. Sansa pushes open the doors and chokes on the smog that wafts in, the scent of something burning in the wind. Quickly, she shuts them and peers through her glass again, spying a billowing, black cloud rising in the distance like a monster, like a deformed dragon. 

Sansa’s stomach drops to her shoes. “Daenerys.” She runs out of her room, heading towards Bran’s chamber as she darts past startled guards. She barges in as her brother glances up, scribbling on a piece of parchment. 

“Sansa? What—“

“Look outside.”

Bran turns, dropping his quill as he stares at the smoke in the Northeast. “Jon and Robb were supposed to go there,” he says, quietly. He pushes himself from his desk and steps over to his bed, lying down and closing his eyes. “Can you watch my body for me?”

Sansa sits close to the end. “Always.”

Bran nods and relaxes into the bed. Within minutes, his brow smooths out, his breathing slows, and his hands fall from his chest to his sides. When his eyelids flutter, Sansa looks out the window where the colossal cloud still stains the sky like black marks left behind by the burning of a funeral pyre. Red fire lights up its underside as if a beast claws its way up, as if recreating the sigil of House Targaryen. She doesn’t know what’s worse: the thought that it might be Daenerys caught up in a battle or if it was Robb and Jon. Or gods forbid, all of them. Maybe they were captured by the enemy, or they died in the flames Daenerys probably started—

She bites her lip and shakes her head. Just because there’s a gigantic fire doesn’t mean Daenerys is involved. Sansa repeats it to herself, but each mention leaves the words colder and deader in her mouth than the last. Looking outside is worse with the skies turning a colour like the grey of the water around King’s Landing, and Sansa inhales sharply, feeling the memories creep in. 

The scar on her nape tingles, as it always does from time to time, and Sansa slaps her hand over it, breath shortening as she closes her eyes, fighting the memory of steel pressed against her skin. Her throat tightens, and Sansa bends over, gasping, hands shaking. Her heartbeat climbs into a panicked staccato, the feeling that she’s going to die soon sinking into her bones, her soul. 

Bran stays silent for a long time, and Sansa heaves with her head between her knees before sitting up, shoving down those feelings as far as she can before adopting a neutral expression. She needs to be strong for her brother. She needs to be perfect.

Despite herself, Sansa clenches her fists, blanching her knuckles and nearly drawing blood when Bran stirs, blinking himself awake as he struggles to sit upright. Sansa rushes over, supporting him by the shoulder as he shakes. She glances at his pale skin, the sweat sliding down his forehead. “What’s wrong? What did your raven see?”

Bran chokes, “It’s a slaughter at the Weeping Water. The Stark men are all dead.” He wipes at his eyes. “Daenerys was there too if the fires burning is any indication.”

“Is she alive?” Sansa’s heartbeat thumps in her throat. “What about Robb? Jon?”

Bran shakes his head. “We can’t fret about them now. I saw something worse.”

“Worse than dead family?” Sansa’s voice tightens. “A dead lover?”

Bran closes his eyes before opening them. He tries to pull himself up. “We need to evacuate Winter Town and tell the guards to close the gates. The Bolton army is coming.”

Sansa doesn’t move as Bran launches himself past her. She whispers, “Why?”

Bran slips on a cloak of a fine silvery-gray from his dresser. “Is it a surprise that a House with a history of rebellion turns on us when we need them the most?” When Sansa doesn’t move, he goes to her, gathering her hands in his. “I need your help.”

“I’m a widow, aren’t I?” she spits, the words bitter and vile in her mouth, like poison. “Or I will be.” She clutches at Bran’s cloak. “Tell me! What good is your greensight if you cannot see what really matters?”

Bran pulls away, pain in his eyes, but he gently tugs his sister’s hands off. “My visions are of those that may happen, not will. It’s our choices that make or break us, Sansa.”

She bows her head, and Bran places a hand tenderly on her shoulder. He leans in. “I know you’re afraid. Not for yourself but for us. Will it serve your family, our people, to fall apart now? Winterfell needs you more than it needs me.” When Sansa says nothing, he continues, softly. “Please. The Bolton’s army are just over a week’s march away from our gates.”

Sansa stirs, shuddering. “We will need to send a raven to Father.” She stands up, turning her gaze away. “Where is Arya? We need her for this.”

They locate Arya in the stables, and, soon, the youngest Stark daughter is riding into Winter Town, calling on all of the townspeople to head into the castle to save themselves from the impending invasion. Sansa watches from afar as Arya, by herself, leads a train of wives with young children, the elderly, the sick into the waiting wings of the castle guards who escort them inside the walls. Arya handles her mare astutely as she shouts to the townspeople, and they follow her immediately, dropping their tools without a second thought. Her sister’s charisma astounds her, but more than that, the raw affection the townspeople have for the wayward Stark sister wakes a revelation in Sansa’s heart.

The townspeople may listen to Sansa and respect her, but they would never love her like they love Arya.

Bran steps next to Sansa, gazing at their sister. “She has a charm that makes people instantly like her.” 

“In some way, she’s more queen than I.” Sansa watches Arya hopping off of her horse to help an elderly man hobble to a waiting wagon. “She has more love for the common man.”

Bran shakes his head. “You have more love than you know. In truth, if I see anyone ruling, it would be you. Arya would be miserable if chained to one place for long.”

“Perhaps.” Sansa turns away, frowning. “But there is much greatness in her, slumbering still.”

Bran gazes at his elder sister. “The same can be said for you.”

A yip to the left catches Sansa’s attention, and she looks over to see Lady emerge from the nearby trees along with three other direwolves. Sansa holds out her hands, and Lady runs over with Summer, Nymeria, and Shaggydog at her heels as Sansa drops to one knee, running her fingers over Lady’s snow-laden fur. The other wolves dart past them. “At least you came back.” Sansa falters, smile dropping. She goes quiet.

Lady sniffs at Sansa’s face before she flattens her ears and whines. She tucks her head under Sansa’s hands, which automatically stroke her fur. Sansa’s breathing relaxes as she wraps her arms around Lady, burying her face in the direwolf’s shoulder. “Daenerys will return too. I know she will.”

Lady doesn’t respond, and Sansa tightens her hold. 

The smog grows denser over Winterfell, and Sansa finds herself retreating to the keep as she coughs uncontrollably. Bran summons the remainder of his advisors, which mostly include his family and Ser Rodrik Cassel, the Masters-of-Arms. Rickon sits near Arya, glancing around and impatiently pushing carved wooden pieces around on a large map.

Bran laces his fingers together on top of the oak table between them. “The Boltons are marching towards us. That is no surprise. What is more concerning is the huge fire creeping towards the castle.”

Sansa grips the arms of her chair. “What fire?”

“The one mysteriously burning in the Northeast that I hope Drogon didn’t create.” Bran glances at her. “Historically, dragonfire has been noted to be harder to put out than regular fire. It burns longer, hotter, than any started by man. The old gods save us if that one was started by dragon flame.”

Arya furrows her brows. “Wouldn’t that slow down the Boltons and be advantageous for us? I mean, imagine having to march through the snow and smoke to get here in heavy armour. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of them dropped dead on the way. It’s as much a benefit to us as a disadvantage.”

Bran looks to the Master-of-Arms seated at his right. “Ser Rodrik, we need your military expertise if we are to survive. What say you?”

Rodrik shakes his head. “It is not much good if we have to flee when the fire reaches us. The Boltons’ army will be ready to cut us down when we leave the gates.”

Sansa glances around the room. “What about the rescue attempt?”

The others pause and look at her. Bran frowns. “What attempt?”

“The one where you send a party to search for our family.” Sansa fidgets in her seat, drumming her fingers loudly on the table. “If the Boltons have them, we need to free them.”

Bran exchanges looks with Arya while Rodrik studies her. He clears his throat. “My lady, sending out a rescue party would be too risky without knowing exactly where they are.”

“Which is why we need to look for them. They could be tortured as we speak!” Sansa huffs, feeling heat rise in her chest, her face. Her heartbeat quickens, a panicked patter like the footsteps of a fleeing rabbit. “Why are we wasting time speaking of this?”

“Sansa,” Bran reaches out gently to touch her hand, “there won’t one.”

Rodrik speaks softly, “We need every soldier here to defend Winterfell when they come.”

There’s a long pause as the words sink into Sansa’s thoughts like stones dropped into water. She slams her hands on the table as everyone jumps in their seat, and she rises to her full height, terrible and raging like a building storm as Rodrik shifts uncomfortably under her glare. “You dare abandon your liege family when they need you the most?”

Rodrik winces. “Lady Sansa—“

She whirls on her siblings, snarling. “And you would sit on your hands and let the Boltons hurt our family? What if they’re tormenting Robb and Jon? What if they’re flaying Daenerys alive?” Her voice rises. “You would do nothing?”

“We can do nothing.” Bran meets her gaze, and she bristles. “We only have the barest of armies in Winterfell, and even then, it would be unwise to send out scouts to spy on them.”

“Father is only a couple of days’ away. It makes no sense for the Boltons to try to take the castle when they’re further off,” Arya points out.

“Perhaps, they’re not working alone and plan to trap him.” Bran’s brows furrow. “I would have to do more reconnaissance.”

“And while you squander your time with your ravens, Daenerys, Robb, and Jon might be horribly mutilated as we speak!” 

Rodrik stands as well, his voice forceful. “We are spread too thinly as it is.” He glances at Bran. “Perhaps, we can ask the Lannisters to help change King Robert’s mind? They are tied into his family.”

“No!” Sansa presses her lips together when her siblings and Rodrik stare. She forces herself to take a breath. “The Lannisters are not to be trusted at all costs.”

Arya lifts an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

Bran glances at Sansa’s clenched fists and quietly dismisses Rodrik to his scowling protest. When the Master-of-Arms leaves, the siblings stand and crowd in closer while Sansa reels, backing up until her back hits the stone wall. She trembles, eyes darting to the two exits behind her remaining family, tensing as if ready to flee.

Arya’s expression hardens at the sight of her sister flattening herself along the wall. “What did they do to you?”

Sansa’s jaw tenses. She shakes her head, shoulders tightening. 

Bran’s voice comes out gently. “Sansa, please tell us. We’ve been watching you suffer alone for so long.”

“I’m not alone. I have Daenerys.” Except she doesn’t. Not anymore.

Arya huffs angrily, “There’s more to life than your wife! We exist too!.”

Sansa turns her face away, unable to bear the inevitable disappointment in their eyes. “I know. I...I try, but—” 

“But what?” Arya stomps her foot, seething, and Sansa flinches back. When Arya notices, she stops. “I hate seeing you like this—afraid of me, of us. Frightened of every sudden thing except when you don’t feel anything at all.”

Sansa inhales sharply. Has her sister always been that astute? “I feel...sometimes.”

Arya retorts, “When, Sansa? Is it only when you look at your wife? At Lady?” She drops her voice. “I was so scared for you when we heard what happened at King’s Landing, but I was even more worried when you came back. You looked past us like you didn’t recognize where you were or who you were with, like you weren’t really here. You didn’t smile. You didn’t correct me. It’s as if you kept checking to see if everything was real, but you walked through us like you were a ghost.” She wipes at her eyes. “I thought you died in King’s Landing and that the you that came back was a shadow or something.”

She’s not wrong. 

Sansa slowly looks over, raising her eyes as if the weight of a thousand stones rest on them. “Was it that bad?”

Bran slowly steps forward and when Sansa tenses, he stops. “I know what happened to you was terrible, but you don’t have to keep it to yourself. If there’s a chance we can help you and it’ll aid in ending the war, please...please, Sansa. Let us know.”

Sansa closes her eyes, feeling heat behind them when she feels someone’s hand slipping into hers. She opens her eyes to see Rickon gazing at her.

“I don’t want you to be sad, Sansa,” Rickon says, quietly. 

“I’m not—“ Sansa struggles. She lets go of her brother’s hand. “Some things are not so easily shared.”

Arya points out, “If you can’t speak about it with us, how will you ever tell Daenerys? You fawn all over each other, but I know you don’t want to be in a marriage of secrets.“ Arya studies her. “Are you afraid of being rejected?”

Sansa flinches. She glances down at her fingers, twisting at her third one on her left hand. “I—I don’t want you to be ashamed of me,” she chokes. “Of the things I’ve done.” She wipes at her face as Arya’s expression softens, the younger Stark sister striding over to wrap her arms around Sansa. “I don’t want Daenerys to be ashamed of me either.”

Bran moves in and places a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. He murmurs, “She wouldn’t.” At his older sister’s expression, he adds, “I don’t need greensight to predict that.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I...I need time. But—” She meets her siblings’ gazes. “I will tell you all one day soon.”

Bran exhales. “I believe you.”

Sansa ducks her head. “Thank you.” Taking a deep breath, she straightens up as she settles her stoic demeanour back on like armour, and Arya’s face falls. But it doesn’t fit quite right as Sansa slips her hands behind her back to hide her trembling fingers. “We should go back to discussing what to do with the Boltons.” Her voice wavers, and, for a moment, her siblings pause, on the precipice of pressing before they turn to one another as if to give Sansa privacy to her own emotions. 

Bran glances at her, expression softening. He looks at Arya and Rickon. “If the Boltons surround us and the fire forces us out, is there a place around or in Winterfell where we can retreat?”

Rickon glances at Sansa before he raises his hand. “If we need to, I know where to hide.”

Bran smiles, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll count on you then.” He looks over to Sansa, waiting. When Sansa meets his eyes, he smiles gently. “As for the matter of supplies and food storage needed to feed everyone here…”

No one brings up the topic again, and Sansa leaves the meeting well into the evening, having added her opinions about the possible military scenarios Bran is considering. Her brother promises to run them by Ser Rodrik and let her know which ones they would consider. Arya slips away like a runaway cat. 

Sansa retires to her chambers in the dark of night and when sleep doesn’t visit her that night, she lights a candle and makes her way to a stool by the windowside where Daenerys’ gift rests. She picks it up and continues embroidering until her fingers nearly bleed.

\--

In the grey light of the early morning, Sansa stands at her stone windowsill, peering out the glass into the dark clouds. Despite herself, she thinks of the family that rode off days before—of her mother and father, her brothers, her wife. Most of all, she lingers on a conversation she had with Jon shortly after the announcement of her engagement that Daenerys blurted out on the stairs in the great hall.

Jon sought her out the morning after, catching her in her sitting room, shoulders close to his ears, eyes dark. He asked, “Did you even think of me when you said yes?”

Sansa had continued reading her book. “Do you want the truth, Jon?”

He shook his head and stalked forward, pausing halfway through the room. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, but there was a sorrow in his eyes that Sansa noticed when she glanced up. She almost regretted accepting Daenerys’ proposal.

Jon turned away. “I’m a bastard. I will inherit no lands, property, nor honour. No woman will marry me to better their families.” He looked back at her and blinked, eyes moist. “You took away the only thing that could have been mine.”

She bristled at his words. “Why would I care if you cannot inherit property?” Sansa snapped. “To some men, I am property.” She rose, standing eye-to-eye with her bastard half-brother. “If you care for me, would you wish for me to call it off and marry Joffrey instead?”

Jon averted his eyes. “If you cared for me, would you do what you just did?”

When Sansa didn’t answer, Jon turned to leave. He paused at her door, halfway out, and glanced over his shoulder. “If you want her, keep her. I just wish you’d understand, one day, that family isn’t just a title.”

He disappeared through her door. They didn’t talk about it again, even when half of her family leaves for war. She wished they did.

Surfacing from her memories, Sansa’s fingers curl on the stone as if reminding her where she is, but she still can’t forget the unkindness she’s shown her family. She would need to have that discussion with Jon when she sees him. She would tell Robb she was sorry for accusing him of flirting with Daenerys, and she would finally share with her wife what happened last summer at King’s Landing.

Sansa prays to the old gods that she’ll get the chance. 

Movement from the rookery catch her eyes, and a murder of ravens burst out from the building, scattering across the sky like a swarm. Maester Luwin and Bran must have started sending messages to their surrounding allies, to Father.

Sansa exhales. She would have to return to her duties, but as she turns, she spots her expression in the reflection of the window pane. She looks so cold, like ice carved into life. When she was in the south, bards in the court sang of how her cheeks and her jaw seemed to be sculpted from marble, of how her eyes shone like the rarest sapphires from Tarth. Knights would bash their brothers at tourneys to win a smile from her, and men and women alike gaped as she passed them in the halls of the Red Keep. By the time she left King’s Landing, the city roiled in rage, fear, and fires, and no one sang of her smiles anymore. They couldn’t when she shared none.

Sansa stares at herself in the polished glass, knowing she’ll never be the girl she used to be. From the nearby stool, she picks up the cloak she started embroidering for Daenerys as a welcome home gift, lifting the fine wool and pressing her lips against the stitches of the red dragon. She shakes, squeezing her eyes shut, as a cold wave rushes up inside her, drowning her. Sansa chokes, feeling as though something grips her heart, as she realizes she can never regain the person she was before. That Sansa died with the people at King’s Landing, and all that is left are the remnants of the girl who left Winterfell with dreams in her heart and returned with sorrows like beautiful baubles smashed against stone. 

Sansa sinks to the floor, clutching Daenerys’ cloak to her face and wondering if her wife was safe, if she was well. Daenerys never knew her as she was, never looked at her with disappointment when Sansa didn’t sing or laugh, never looked upon her with regret that there wasn’t more done to save her. Daenerys only knows her as she is. Sansa supposes that’s why she loves her, but she can’t help but wonder if Daenerys understands how much she does.

When at last she stops shaking, sobbing, Sansa clings to the cloak and stays on the floor for a long while, holding the tearstained cloth to her cheeks, her eyes. Slowly, she rises, holding onto the gift as she gazes across the window to the smoky sky outside, feeling as empty as a waterless well. But she has no more time for crying. No more time to acknowledge what has been done.

The North needs her. Daenerys needs her. She has to prepare for war.

Sansa walks away from her reflection.


	13. Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the battle of the Weeping Water carries farther south than anyone would suspect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter. Much thanks to Halifax, my beta-reader, as always for her valuable feedback and eternal encouragement.
> 
> Belated shout-out to XxXCauwenNestrielXxX for their 18th birthday! Hope it was a great one!

Dany wakes up with fire burning one side of her body. She coughs, reaching for the shoulder bright with white-fire and feel the bandage cloth wrapped around the left side of her body as she glances at her surroundings. 

She lies on a clean bed in a circular room lined with bookshelves. The shelves are filled with tomes and maps of lands unfamiliar while vials and potions bottles stand next to a silver knife on a table close by. At the opposite side of the room is an aged desk and a large window that opens into a view of a river snaking around a white-walled city. Beside that is a carved stair railing that leads down, the wood thick and dark as carved from trees with black bark. Her sheets are clean, and the room moderately large with the fresh scent of the river wafting in through the window. Someone put her there out of care, but who?

Daenerys shifts, and agony bursts through her chest as she tries to put her feet on the floor, the memories of the fight jumbled and hazy. She had been flying and something shot her off, and someone important to her had fallen into a river, carried away in merciless waters. She had to get them back. 

Heavy footsteps boom from below her, and Daenerys freezes as they get louder and closer to her. A young man with a round, pudgy face lumbers up the stairs with a tray holding bread, cheese, and a bowl of thin broth. He spots her and immediately plunks the tray on the desk, soup sloshing, and rushes over to examine her. He sighs with relief. “You woke up.”

“Was I not supposed to?” Daenerys grabs at her shoulder. 

The man frowns and tries to pull her hand away, only to freeze when Daenerys glares at him. He tucks his own hands onto his lap. “Your wound was infected. We thought it would go bad, and we would have to cut your arm off.”

Daenerys snaps to attention. “Infected?”

“Yes, it was quite bad, but I got to try a new technique by one of the maesters who found that patients died more often when the wound was covered with—“ The man trails off at Daenerys’ expression. “—perhaps, that is not of interest to you,” he adds, meekly.

Daenerys inhales sharply when she shifts. Her memories resurface, growing in sharpness like a blade being grinded. She recalls falling from the sky, the battle at the Weeping Water. “Can I still fight? What of Robb and Jon?”

“Who?” His eyes widen. He shakes his head. “You are fortunate that whatever hit you was a mere glance. Any further in, and all the bones in your shoulder would be shattered. Or your arm would be torn off. You even had my teacher look at you multiple times, and you nearly died.” He studies her expression. “Y-you must be wondering where you are, and who I am. You are in the Citadel in Oldtown.” He glances at the window. “And I am Samwell of House Tarly.”

She squints at him. “How far away is the Weeping Water from here?”

Sam brings her a map, and Daenerys nearly throws it onto the floor when she realizes she is on the other side of Westeros. “How did I come by here?”

Sam fidgets with his fingers. “W-well, a dragon flew over when I was picking medicinal herbs in the nearby woods and dropped you on me.” At Daenerys’ stare, he shrugs, both hands raised. “It surprised me too. As for where the dragon went, I’m not so certain. He did not stop to tell me.” He sighs, “I was preoccupied with the body that had fallen in my arms.” Sam peers at her. “How you didn’t bleed out with your injury, I don’t know. Some are born lucky.”

Daenerys glares at her shoulder. “Not particularly.” She peers out the window at night falling on the city. “How long was I asleep?”

“A week since I brought you back here.” Sam frowns. “I was not sure if you would survive the first night with the extent of your wounds.” He holds out his hand, listing off chubby fingers. “Blood loss, infection, a crack somewhere in your arm, horrendous wound in one limb—it is more startling that you survived than not.”

Daenerys bolts up, and agony flares through her injured shoulder like a blade to flesh. She hisses, and Sam leaps from his seat to usher her back down. “If what you say is true, I must leave right away.”

“To where?” Sam frets over her bandages. “You can barely move without pain.”

“To the—“ Daenerys pauses. “House Tarly, you said? To which House does your own fall under?”

Samwell glances over at her, eyes wary. “House Tyrell, who are allied with House Baratheon and Lannister.” He studies her silver-blonde hair, her eyes. “And you look just like a Targaryen from the old tales. Who are you if I might ask?”

Daenerys stares, meeting his gaze. The silence in the room threatens to choke her as something clicks in Sam’s thoughts behind his eyes. She lunges for a small, silver knife on a nearby table while Sam hollers, kicking out a wooden leg so the blade goes flying, clattering harmlessly behind him on the wooden floor. Daenerys falls to the ground and nearly bites through her lip from the pain that rocks her body. 

Sam peers at her. “You...you also broke something in your arm in addition to your infection.” He gingerly kneels down to help her up, and when Dany, gasping with tears in her eyes, doesn’t fight him, he gently lifts her back onto the bed. “You s-should rest until your injuries heal.” He glances at her face, her hair. “There’s only one female Targaryen that was rumoured to survive the war years ago.”

“I am Daenerys Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of Meereen, Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, and Breaker of Chains,” she gasps, clutching at her chest. And wife of Sansa Stark.

Sam’s mouth drops open. “A queen dropped on my head.” He remembers himself and bows awkwardly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, your Grace. Let me tell you what I do know.”

Sam informs Daenerys that it was in the morning hours that he met her, Daenerys’ stomach sinks. She recalls it was bright daylight when she fought at the river with Jon and Robb. Drogon must have flown for the entire night to bring her there.

Sam clears his throat. “I disguised you as a corpse and brought you in, though by the looks of you, it didn’t require a great deal of convincing.” At Daenerys’ look, he adds, “Maesters often cut open bodies to examine them, and it is not uncommon for bandits to prey on unsuspecting travellers on the road outside.” He touches the crown of his brow. “Your head was stained with so much blood, it looked as if you had hair kissed by fire.”

Daenerys’ throat tightens. Sansa. “Would you be able to help me get a raven out?”

“To your army?” Sam shifts uneasily. “Maesters have given vows to cut ties with former alliances and thus only serve the realm rather than certain Houses.”

“But you’re a maester-in-training. Does it fully apply to you?” Daenerys pauses when Sam’s expression falls. “You need not worry about breaking your vows. I only ask to send a message to my wife to let her know that I am alive.”

Sam’s eyes pop open. “Oh, you’re—“ He coughs, “I mean, of course. I always wanted to ask about people from places like Dorne and Essos and....” He trails off as Daenerys feels an eyebrow twitch. “Who—who am I sending it to?”

“Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“Oh!” Sam nearly jumps out of his seat. His eyes bulge. “So, the rumours are true!”

“What rumours?” Daenerys snaps, feeling pain radiate up her neck, her jaw.

“That the prince started a war to reclaim his betrothed who was captured by a Targaryen, just like King Robert did years ago. Of course, quite a few...disliked the prince, so not many people took his word seriously until he began summoning his lords to war.” 

Daenerys narrows her eyes. “And the king allowed this?

Sam frowns. “I heard he tried to stop it, but the prince’s declaration set many things in motion. Then again, the king has always expressed hatred for the Targaryens, so it is not unsurprising that he might agree.”

“Wonderful,” Daenerys grunts. She pauses. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”

Sam twiddles his thumbs. “That would be nice.”

“Why are you helping me?” Daenerys forces herself to sit up, to bite back the urge to retch from pain. “If someone loyal to the Baratheons were to catch you, they would ensure your House’s extinction.”

“Maesters give up their ties to their family to serve the realm, but I confess the worry did cross my mind.” He lifts his gaze to meet hers. “You may be the enemy of my House,” Sam’s lip quivers, “but I cannot let you die. Not without trying everything to save you.”

Daenerys goes silent before she snorts. “You are a fool, Samwell Tarly.” She turns her head away, closing her eyes. “A fool I am indebted to. Name your favour, and I will grant it. Make it worthwhile of House Targaryen.”

“House?” Sam’s brows furrow. “Aren’t you the only one still living?”

Daenerys’ jaws click shut. “Yes.” She shifts. “The raven?”

Sam shakes his head. “You would not be the first to ask. All of the ravens over the last week sent north have not returned, and those who did, died upon landing in the rookery. When they were cut open to find out why, the maesters discovered that their lungs were burnt from the inside as if they flew through smoke and fire. No one really knows why, but there are rumours of black clouds rising from the Northeast and spreading further south.

Daenerys’ head throbs. She feels like she should know why the smoke is appearing. “Then, can you send one to Harrenhal?”  
Sam nods and scribbles down her note on a slender piece of parchment. Daenerys dictates her orders to Grey Worm in terse sentences, asking him to send either Viserion or Rhaegal down to meet her. Something feels off in her stomach when she thinks about Drogon. When Sam glances up curiously at the names, Daenerys shakes her head. “You don’t need to know.” She clears her throat. “Please also let my...friend know to meet up with the others up north and wait for me.” 

Sam finishes his scribbles with a flourish. “You’re probably telling your army to move around.”

Daenerys stares. “And yet, you’re helping me?”

“Well, this is exciting, isn’t it? It’s a chance to be part of something huge!” Sam glances around before leaning in, dropping his voice low. “And between you and me, not many approve of how the prince handled that uprising in King’s Landings last year, including me. It’s just not right to kill that many innocent people to punish a few. Don’t you agree?”

Daenerys makes a non-committal sound in her throat. “Before you go send that message, could you tell me more about where I am?”

Sam, as briefly as he can, goes over the recent history of Oldtown, the Hightowers, the Tyrells, the Reach—how the Tyrells allied themselves with the Lannister when they found themselves backing that losing side of a war.

Daenerys hums. “It may be worthwhile to chance an alliance with them if I find a Tyrell with influence.”

“You would be lucky, since most Tyrells either keep to themselves in Highgarden or to certain lords and ladies in King’s Landing.” Sam stands, frowning. His fingers fidget. “I pray that may no Hightowers figure out that you’re here. They are allied with the Lannisters through and through.” He coughs, “Lord Leyton is the current one ruling, but rumours say he never leaves his tower so you may be safe.” He looks uncertain, shuffling his feet as he holds up the thin strip of parchment. “I’ll be going to get this sent for you, and then I will return.”

“Wait,” Daenerys calls out. “If I am to wait here, do you have something to occupy me in the meantime?”

Sam’s eyes light up. He rushes to a nearby bookshelf, pulling a book from the middle section. “This one is about Aegon the Conqueror, one of the best Targaryen kings in history. It has always been one of my favourite to read, and I think it might become one of yours too.”

“Because he was a victorious warlord?”

Sam raises his eyebrows at her. “No, because he built many structures and his wives brokered many alliances, which brought peace to the land.”

Daenerys furrows her brows. “I haven’t heard about that.”

Sam glances at her and hands over the book. “There was more to Aegon’s greatness than conquering,” he adds, softly before picking up her tray and leaving.

Because Daenerys doesn’t have anything else to do, she does.

Daenerys frowns as she read how Visenya and Rhaenys weaved strong alliances throughout Westeros like threads on a loom. How would she do the same thing here once she conquers the realm? Perhaps, Sansa could handle that part, as she seems more suited for it and she has more knowledge—

Daenerys clenches at the book, pain blossoming in her chest at the thought of her wife. Is she still breathing? Did Winterfell fall? Where is Drogon?

She stands up, nearly toppling over from the one-sided weight of having her arm wrapped to her body. “I need to return to Sansa,” she mutters as she stumbles towards the wide window, the whole of Oldtower below her.

Daenerys breathes in the air, the scent of flowers that remind her of the glass gardens in the wind. When she opens her eyes, she spots the Honeywine river winding in a wide path before her, tiny islands dotting its waters with stone and wooden bridges linking them together in ancient arches. One isle even has an inn with smoke coming from its chimney. Below her lies a stone bridge with gigantic carved creatures like green monsters with the bodies of lions, the tails of serpents, and the wings of eagles. Daenerys can’t see the faces from where she is, but she believes that they would be no less disturbing. 

On the far side of her, she spots houses built in a curve along the water until they reach rolling hills. Buildings and homes stretch out into the distance until the cloud obscure them in the horizon. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s not where she belongs.

Daenerys reaches out an arm to the sky, calling out to Drogon through the bond they share. She waits with her hand upraised until the sun sinks below the water, casting the skies in shades of orange and red like wildfire.

He doesn’t come.


	14. Out, Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys heads out into Oldtown to find news about Drogon. She learns something else instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the lateness of this chapter (according to my mental schedule anyway). Much thanks as always to Halifax for her feedback!

Sam finds her heaving against the side of the spiral staircase as he climbs back up. His eyebrows shoot up. “Does the phrase, ‘broken bones’ mean nothing to you?”

Daenerys snarls, taking another step even as she flinches at the jolt of her feet against stone. “Drogon.”

“You mean dragon?” Sam stares at her, befuddled. “He—he flew away, your Grace.”

“Where did he go? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. What I do know is that you are going to make your injuries worse if you keep doing that.” He reaches for her, and Daenerys yanks back, accidentally banging her shoulder on the stone wall and collapsing to her knees. His face softens. “My apologies for what I’m going to do.”

Daenerys tenses but doesn’t get much farther as Sam scoops her up in his arms and lumbers back up the stairs, holding her tight enough to his chest that she couldn’t move. Daenerys snarls, but the ripples from each step makes her bite back her whimpers. 

Sam carries her back up into the room and deposits her gently on the bed. He moves to light a nearby candle. “Let me take a look at your shoulder.”

Daenerys struggles to sit up. “Not until I know what happened to--”

“How will you do any good if you die from r-reopening your wound?” Sam fidgets. “And if what you’re looking for is a dragon, he can take care of himself until you get better. If you go as you are, you wouldn’t even make it halfway down.”

Daenerys inhales, squeezing her eyes shut. Drogon. “Promise me you’ll help me look for him tomorrow.”

Sam nods, relieved. “I’ll do what I can to gather news. Now, your shoulder…” 

Daenerys hangs her head as Sam unwraps her bandages and slathers some cold ointment that makes cold tingles run up to her teeth. “You must help me…”

Sam ties up the bandages before glancing at her. “I would be more than happy to do so, but if you are to hide with your wound, you would have to learn how to speak less like a queen and more like a commoner.”

Daenerys recalls how she begged on the streets with Viserys in Essos, the parade of men and women who passed by shivering and starving brother and sister in a dirty archway without a glance. “Never.”

Sam gives her an exasperated look. “Please try, your Grace. I wouldn’t want the guards to seize you, because you spoke down to them and revealed that you’re actually the last Targaryen alive.” When Daenery doesn’t answer, Sam ducks his head, glancing at the cold broth, cheese, and bread he left on her table earlier. “I-I’ll leave you, but please eat.” He leaves when silence is all he receives, his steps a slow, heavy thud down winding stairs.

Daenerys glances up at the high ceiling, the rounded room around her as moonlight filters through the far window, showing only black night beyond. She doesn’t know how high up she is, but she knows Sam is right. She would fall trying to descend her tower.

Daenerys closes her eyes, but sleep escapes her without knowing what happened to Drogon. She blows out her candle and lies awake in the darkness for a long time.

—

Sam arrives the next morning with a small girl with dark hair and eyes like a sparrow, quick and darting everywhere. He introduces her as the girl dips into an awkward curtsy. “This is Gilly, who has been helping me out as a maid.”

“The maesters are allowed maids?” Daenerys struggles to sit up, heaving as she pulls herself upright from her headboard. Gilly studies her silently, uncertain. 

“She’s an exception since she helps out with my healing, and she’s a...a friend of mine. She’s—“ Sam falters.

Gilly glances over at him and shakes her head. She turns to Daenerys, speaking slowly and keeping her gaze trained on the other woman’s face as if watching for something. “I came to Oldtown with a child, having ridden many miles to escape my…”

“Husband?” Daenerys supplies.

Gilly glances sharply to Sam. She shakes her head. “H-he found me on the outskirts of the forest.” She goes silent. 

Sam continues when Gilly doesn’t. “She was starving and nearly dying of thirst, bruised because she had fallen off her horse. Both she and her son were crying, and she asked me to take him and give him to someone who could raise him.” He puffs his chest and thrust his chin out, wobbling slightly. “But I can be stubborn when I need to be.” 

Gilly tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “He took us both on his wagon to the Citadel where the maesters refused to take us in until Sam convinced them otherwise.”

Sam mutters, “The amount of bedpans I had to wash…”

“I’m in debt to you.” Gilly twists at the cloth of her grey dress. “A-a mother with a child and no husband only has the prospect of making a living in a brothel, but Sam found me a position as a maid of the maesters.”

The top of Sam’s ears glow red. “Anyone would have done the same.”

Gilly looks at him and then away. “No, they would not,” she says, softly. “They had their chance.”

The flush spreads across Sam’s skin until his face is a bright pinkish-red. Daenerys clears her throat to remind she is here. “Did you have a purpose for bringing her here in mind?”

Sam blinks. “Yes, of course!” They trundle over with a wicker basket full of vials with colourful liquids and clean wrappings. 

Sam and Gilly unwrap her bandages, and Daenerys turns to look at her shoulder. She wishes she didn’t.

Gilly gingerly applies a slimy, clear liquid on her open wound from a vial, red flesh in a wide patch across Daenerys’s skin. Daenerys winces. “You’ll have a scar, but you’ll live.”

“It will be an impressive one that you can take home to your lady wife,” Sam adds, grin faltering at Daenerys’ expression. “I mean, I am certain she will love you either way.”

Gilly glances at her, quickly. “Lady wife?”

“Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” Sam informs her. He nods at Daenerys. “Good choice.” He ducks his head when Daenerys’ scowls deepens. .

Gilly studies Daenerys. “I heard how beautiful she is from the courts in King’s Landing. People speak of her even here.”

Daenerys closes her eyes, recalling Sansa’s sharp features as if carved from marble, her eyes like water under a frozen lake, the shaggy black hood of her cloak, the slight smile whenever she looks at Daenerys out of the corner of her eyes. “The stories are understated.”

Gilly nods. She finishes wrapping up Daenerys’ shoulder as Sam checks over his vials, frowning. He pulls a small, leather-bound book out of his pocket and scribbles something in it with a slender metal stylus. He clicks his tongue. “We are running out of mandragora for the surgeries, and we will have to get more from Braavos.” He glances up. “We used some of the last bit of it to put you to sleep.” 

“Thank you.” Daenerys shifts her bandaged arm, wincing. “If you are to go to town to get supplies, take me with you. I need to go outside for news of Drogon,” she blurts out to a startled Sam and Gilly.

Sam exchanges glances with Gilly. “Why?”

“He is of my blood, and the faster I can find him, the quicker I can return to Winterfell.”

Sam stares at her, befuddled. “You plan to ride a dragon out of a city connected to the Lannister with only one arm?”

Daenerys nods. “If I must.”

Sam shakes his head. “Your shoulder will take a few more weeks to mend completely.” 

“I can’t wait that long,” Daenerys snaps. 

Gilly glances to Sam then Daenerys, “We can keep our eyes and ears open for news. Would that give you peace?” 

When Daenerys hesitates, Sam adds, “How much could you help him now in your state?”

Daenerys glares before muttering.

Gilly gathers up the dirty bandages, throwing them into a linen bag she brought with her while Sam clasps his hands together. “Please believe me when I say we will help you look as soon as you become well enough to leave the Citadel, but as a healer, I cannot let you go as you are.” He swallows, shaking. “It would go against everything I trained for.”

Daenerys deflates. “If you hear anything about Drogon, please let me know immediately.” 

Sam looks relieved while Gilly nudges Sam in the side softly with her elbow. Her eyes dart over to Daenerys. “Did you give her what you found on her?”

“Oh!” Sam hustles over to the desk at the window, pulling out a drawer at the side. He takes out a short blade with the carved pommel of a wolf and hands it to her, Daenerys’ chest constricting at the sight of it. “We found them on you when we were cleaning you up.” 

“You knew I was allied with the Starks.” Daenerys narrows her eyes. “And yet, you pretended otherwise.”

Sam flushes. “We had suspicions but nothing confirmed. You may have bought that blade or stolen it. You may be an enemy. It doesn’t change the fact that my duty as a healer is to save you as best as he could. I would dare say I succeeded.”

Daenerys grimaces and looks away. “I already told you that I owe you my life. You have until I leave to decide what favour you will ask on me.”

“I...I will think on it,” Sam squeaks, still red.

They bid her goodbye after Gilly promises to come back later with breakfast. The days pass by much like that. Daenerys waits an agonizing two weeks in the same round room with only the books to keep her company and the daily visits from Sam and Gilly, who seem to like her for some reason. She finishes two whole shelves worth of tomes on Houses from the Targaryen to the Starks to the Greyjoys to even small ones like Dayne. 

When Sam and Gilly come by again on a grey morning, Daenerys hands him the tome on the Daynes as he checks over her wound with a satisfied expression while Gilly wipes away the dust on the tables and shelves with a small cloth. 

He takes the book from her. “House Dayne? I haven’t heard that name since—oh!” He nearly drops the book before whirling it around to reveal a colour illustration of a beautiful woman with dark hair and purple eyes the same shade as Daenerys’. “Ashara Dayne! You could pass off as her!”

Gilly glances down at the picture then at Daenerys. “I could get you black dye for your hair.”

“Why would I want to look like her?’ Daenerys examines the woman drawn on vellum with an almost haunting beauty, like the heroine of a tragic tale. “What happened to her?”

Sam frowns. “She threw herself from a tower at Starfall into the sea years ago. This happened a few years after the death of her brother, though some say she killed herself because her child was stolen.” 

Daenerys shakes her head. “You have not answered why I would want to be mistaken as her.”

Sam shifts. “Well, you wanted to go out, right? You’re about well enough that you would walk without looking like you want to retch every step, and your hair right now might attract attention.” 

Daenerys touches her silver-blonde strands. “You want me to hide it?”

Sam counters, “Do you want the Lannisters’ allies coming to Oldtown and grabbing you off of the streets?”

Gilly glances at them. She steps between them. “I will go fetch the dye from the supplies, and you can decide, yes?” She returns shortly with a glass bottle with something like pitch inside and a basin filled with water. 

Daenerys glances at the dark dye and then at her bandaged arm. “Could you help me with that?”

Gilly looks at Sam, who stands there for a few moments before his eyes light up. “Oh! Yes, I will give you your privacy.”

Sam slips downstairs, and Gilly sits Daenerys up with a blanket around her neck and shoulders at the chair at her desk across the room. A couple of hours later, Daenerys stares at her reflection in the mirror, the dye turning her hair to the colour of starless nights. It’s strange to see herself without her signature strands.

Gilly peers around her work. “You look close enough to a daughter of hers.” She wipes her hands with a stained cloth with dark patches. “When Sam comes, he can take a look for himself.”

Sam eventually returns, inspecting Daenerys closely until she growls at him and he leaps back. “Good enough!” He helps her out of bed and, with the help of Gilly, supports Daenerys with one arm as she slowly makes her way down the stairs. The stairs seem endless, like a repeating spiral that nearly drives Daenerys mad until they reach the last step that ends on a platform with a tall oak door before them. Sam pushes the door open and leads them a device with a rope coiled around a wheel. He loads them all on before closing the wooden gate around the platform and grabbing the rope as Gilly unties its knot to a nearby iron brazier. 

Daenerys stares. “What are you doing?”

Sam winks. “Getting us down.” When Gilly gestures that she is done, Sam slides his grip down the rope as the platform descends just as slowly. “We use a hoist system to get to the highest parts of the Citadel. How do you think I got you up there in the first place?” 

Daenerys shakes her head and watches Sam start to sweat as the minutes pass by. “How did you get me up without anyone noticing?”

“A lot of luck,” Sam grunts. “I’m not the strangest acolyte in the Citadel if that gives you any indication of how people view me dragging a corpse to the tallest room.”

“But what happens if a maester catches you?” Daenerys presses.

Sam huffs, “Nothing good. What do you think might happen to someone who brought an enemy of the Baratheons and helped them?”  
They don’t speak for the rest of the descent. 

When they touch down on the ground, Sam stumbles off and leans against a stone wall, wheezing. “I’m glad we did not plummet to our death,” Daenerys says, dryly.

Once Sam recovers his breath, he straightens and leads them through the oak door, down a set of twisting hallways, and past the courtyards by the kitchen where the shouts of men drift out from a tall, brick building with odd rooms attached to it like they built like an afterthought.

Sam sneaks them out to an arching stone bridge where two huge, green statues stand like sentries. Beyond them, Daenerys spots a connecting intersection of wide bridges where stalls and houses sit on the pathway, vendors shouting out to the crowd, as people pass comfortably between them. Men and women dressed in clean, rich robes peer at them as Daenery shuffles past with her hood pulled over her head. 

Sam whispers close by. “Doing that makes you look suspicious.”

Daenerys glares. She glances about before settling the hood back and down on her shoulders, wind stirring her strands gently. The interest in passing men’s and women’s eyes shift to something else, and Daenerys is at least familiar with the look now aimed at her.

Gilly glances about her. “We shouldn’t linger.”

They head towards the gate, a huge arch carved into the midst of a brick wall. Beyond that slumbers the gigantic green statues of beasts like a cross between a person, a lion, and an eagle. Daenerys noticed how the backs of statues stretch above them, well beyond hand’s reach, and wondered how and where the ancient carvers and masons managed to drag a huge block of stone to be carved flawlessly. Beyond the water at the edge of the city lies walls higher than any ladder could scale, more ancient than her dragons. They would poise a problem for her army if they have to scale them…if she chose to invade.

Sam leads them along, relaxing as they step off the bridge and onto the mainland. He pulls out a scroll from his robe and peers at it, listing the herbs and potions on it as the ones he used to keep her alive. There’s a lot.

Sam goes on length at the type of processes he attempted on her as they walk to the nearest marketplace. “...a new idea where we clean the tools with fire before using them. One of the Maester has found that the men he treats live more often when he does so. Getting the other maesters to agree to follow him is another matter.”

“Why is that?” Daenerys glances around them at the brick homes, the cobbled path beneath them, half-listening. It’s cleaner than any other city she’s been in.

Gilly frowns, “Men are stubborn and don't like to change.” 

“Not just men.” Sam dares a glance at Daenerys who scowls. He ducks his face away. “A-anyway, we are here.” They turn a corner from a stone building into an open square filled with tents and stalls with colourful banners and tents, people milling through and stopping at stands where bunches of green, leafy vegetables; fruits; and freshly cut meat lay on giant wooden platters. Across the square lies a handful of darker-skinned merchants with fine, intricately-patterned carpets of gold and indigo, dangling cloth of silk, and spices that waft over to them, making Daenerys ache with a strange nostalgia. Sam goes off to some merchants with grey in their beards and their scowling wives to haggle over the medicinal herbs and potions he needs while Gilly trails after her as Daenerys listens in to the conversations around, listening for any mention of the North, the war, or of a dragon. 

The marketplace buzzes with gossip of the noble families of Oldtown, careful phrasing regarding the current King of Westeros and the prince, and the complaints of paying too much from passerby who did not dutifully inspect the wares prior to purchasing. Daenerys tries to interrupt several conversations with a carefully-worded phrase about hearing about dragons nearby.

The people she talks to stare at her. One man even scoffs and says, “Dragons are dead. Much like the Targaryens. If you listen to silly rumours, you are going to become a silly woman.”

Gilly pulls her away as Daenerys nearly snarls. “A woman asking about dragons gets too much attention.”

“How am I supposed to find out about Drogon, and what happened to him?”

Gilly shakes her head. “Tavern?”

They gather Sam, who eyes his bag of clinking bottles and herbs carefully as he scratches off the items on his scroll. Sam brings them back to the bridge and over one of the islands on the Honeywine via a connecting arch to a homely dark building with smoke drifting lazily from its stone chimney. The inside is lined with wooden benches while men dressed in soiled cotton and boiled leather clink their mugs together, guffawing loudly, as young women dart around them, dropping off tankards and plates of steaming meat or bread. The tavern smells of ale and food, and below that is a stench that makes Daenerys’ nostrils flare and a scowl appear on her face. She coughs and covers her nose while Gilly and Sam shoot her an apologetic look.

Sam shrugs. “Taverns.”

He stops a woman passing by who ushers them to a table near the door and an open window, which Daenerys immediately seats herself next to. 

Daenerys eyes the laughing men and women around the room. “Could you two go about and see if there might be someone who might be in the business of the king’s army, or who might be a mercenary? They may know about the war and Drogon.”

Sam glances at Gilly, who clenches her fists before nodding. They head off together, leaving Daenerys by herself. They pass through the crowd with Sam wrapping his arm protectively around Gilly’s shoulders.

Daenerys sighs and leans back on her stool. She rubs at a temple with one arm, the other one bound closely to her chest. A barmaid with hair like copper catches Daenerys’ eyes, and she inhales sharply. It lasts until the woman turns around, and Daenerys notices that the jaw is too wide, the eyes a different shape. Daenerys looks away, clenching her fist, throat tightening.

The barmaid looks her over. She smiles and strolls over. When she reaches Daenery, she leans forward, exposing the low cut of her top. “What are you looking for, and how can I serve you?”

Daenerys grumbles. “I’m in no mood.”

The barmaid frowns, disappointed. “A beautiful woman like you? That is a great shame.”

“I’m wedded.”

“So are many people at this tavern.” She shrugs before straightening up. “What will it be then?”

Daenerys glances up. “What do you have?”

“Pottage, which might have been there since last summer. Bread. Broth.” She cocks her hip. “Or if you feel adventurous, you can take your chances with the local pies. They haven’t killed anyone recently.”

Daenerys hastily orders some broth, and the barmaid sweeps away, hips swinging from side to side as the woman glances over her shoulder with a longing expression. Daenerys huffs and looks around for Sam and Gilly who seemed to be pulled into a conversation with an adventuring party near the back of the room. A few minutes after, they shake their heads and head back to Daenerys. She straightens up, leaning forward as they sit down, huddled together as the barmaid drops off a pitcher of ale, some glasses, and a bowl of golden broth with floating pieces of herbs and bread.

Sam eyes the bowl, and Daenerys shoves it over along with the bred. He looks up gratefully before diving into the meal. Daenerys turns her attention to Gilly. “What did you learn?”

Gilly’s eyes dart around her. “They...they heard that people saw a dragon two weeks ago. It burned the woods north of here before flying off. They think east but might be north or west.”

Daenerys furrows her brows. “But what is west of Westeros?”

Sam looks up to shrug before ducking his head again to the soup bowl. Gilly glances at him, and sighs. Daenerys pours herself a mugful of ale and passes one to Gilly, who stares at it before continuing. “They also heard a little about the war in the North.” 

Sam swallows and jumps in. “They say the Starks have been routed by the king’s army from the west, but the king has been having trouble sending up troops past Harrenhal. He has been relying on the Ironborn and men from Castely Rock to fight them, though they have been taking routes around Riverrun and Darry.” 

Daenerys growls, “That isn’t a lot of information.”

“There wasn’t much.” Gilly surveys the people around them. 

Sam nods. “The only other thing they said was that the Northmen are slowly starving to death with any supplies cut off from Highgarden.”

Daenerys squeezes the handle of her tankard. Her voice comes out tightly controlled. “The Starks have their own supply lines from Winterfell.”

Gilly glances at Daenerys. “Not any more,” she says, quietly, before dropping her gaze. “The king’s allies surrounded their castle. Winterfell is under attack. It has been for a while.”

Daenerys hears the world fall away from her as she processes the word. Coldness squeezes her chest, and she has this awful feeling clawing at her stomach like when Qotho knocked her down and blood leaked down her thighs, like the dread she had just before she enters Drogo’s tent after the ritual, breathing hard at the coarse canvas before pushing through. She jumps to her feet, banging her knees against the table as her mind spins into panic. Sansa. “I need to go back.” 

Sam leaps to his feet while Gilly’s gaze darts over Daenerys’ heaving chest and wild eyes. He holds out his hands placatingly. “You will.” He gestures for Daenerys to sit down, “We will help you, but you need to be clever about it.” He exhales when Daenerys returns to her seat. “There’s more we need to tell you.”

Sam watches her carefully. He gestures for her to keep her voice low as several men nearby glance their way. “Some of the king’s men have also been searching for the dragon and have been heading to the major cities to ask anyone if they saw a silver-haired woman with him. The price for any information is half a million dragons.” He swallows. “You have no shortage of reasons for a stranger to profit from you.”

Daenerys mutters, “I have been sold for less.”

Sam grimaces. “The king’s men are heading here. They’ll arrive within days.” 

Daenerys snarls, “Let them. I’ll---she pauses. ”What happens if they find...who they are looking for?”

Sam gulps. “I suppose they would take them to King’s Landing to answer to the king and prince. Most likely a public execution.”

Daenerys goes silent. “But I would hear more about what is happening if I were to go there, yes?”

Gilly shifts. “That is the last place you should go.”

“What are my other options?” Daenerys glances over to see people staring at her curiously. “To wait here for those men to find me like a whipped dog? No, I go to meet my fate, but I won’t go unwisely.” She leans forward. She swallows. “I need your aid to do so.”

Sam shakes his head and stands up, tossing a couple of silver stags on the table. “We should teach you to speak more crudely like a commoner first.” He looks mournfully at his ale.

Daenerys scoffs while Gilly takes Sam’s arm, and they leave the tavern. She strides ahead of the pair, wind blowing back her hair and cloak. “We should speak back at the Citadel.”

They scurry back onto the bridge, past the gates, and into the Citadel where Sam huffs as he hoists the three of them back onto a higher platform. A thought hits Daenerys as they climb the stairs to her room. “How did you hide taking care of me for several weeks?” she asks Sam.

An unfamiliar, heavy voice calls out from Daenerys’ room at the top of the stairs, sending the hairs on her arms and nape straight up. “Oh, not very well.”

Sam pales, and Daenerys exchanges glances with Gilly. Sam’s legs tremble as he takes a step backwards while Daenerys pushes forward, pulling her wolfhead dagger from her cloak pocket as she emerges into the room at the top of the stairs, spotting a squat man sitting in a chair by the window. His jaw looks solid enough to be hit by a man’s fist and not break, the nose above it juts to the left as if broken and not healed properly. He idly flips through a tome about Aegon the Conqueror with huge hands, one would be enough to wrap around Daenerys’ neck and choke her. He looks up at them and closes the book. “Samwell, you know the punishment for something of this scale, of keeping an enemy of the king locked in a tower.”

The man stands, shorter than Sam, but broader and thicker in the chest with shoulders so solid, he could pick up any of them and throw them into a wall. Sam stops at the sight of him. “M-maester Marwyn.”

The maester smiles, teeth stained with red as if from rust, from blood. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Daenerys Targaryen.”


	15. Deals Dealt in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys makes a deal with the maester, but was it wise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Halifax for her feedback and encouragement!

The Maester glances between them with that awful red smile. “Something got your tongues?”

Daenerys tightens her hold on the dagger, but she feels a sudden grip on her good arm. She looks at Gilly who shakes her head. The younger woman pales and trembles at Daenerys' side. 

Sam fumbles forward. “This isn’t what it looks like! She’s not Daenerys Targaryen at all!”

Maester Marwyn cocks his head. “So, who is she then?”

“She’s from House Dayne! Lady Ashara's missing babe!” Sam’s face goes pink, and Daenerys wants to groan. “She’s a bastard!”

“Aren’t we all?” Marwyn clucks his tongue and sets aside the book. He laces his fingers together. “But that’s not what we’re talking about, is it?” His eyes trail down to the location of Daenerys’ hand, hidden underneath her cloak. “Do you know what the punishment is for killing a maester? Perhaps not. The Targaryens always considered them above the laws of gods and men.”

Daenerys bares her teeth. “What power do the maesters have over a dragon?”

Marwyn holds up his hands in a shrug. “What power do you have over a dragon? Have you been able to summon it here in Oldtown?” He straightens up, leaning forward, still smiling. “If you could, you wouldn’t be here.”

Daenerys inhales sharply. She steps forward, only for Gilly to tighten her hold. “What do you know about that?”

Marwyn gestures for her to take a seat on the bed. When Daenerys refuses, he rises and offers the chair he’s using. Daenerys shakes her head. “I will stand.”

“Suit yourself.” He eyes Sam and Gilly, the former with sweat on his face and a damp collar while Gilly goes still, watching Marwyn like a frightened rabbit surveying a bear. “Those two will have to leave, so we can have a private talk.”

Daenerys eyes the maester’s huge hands, his broad shoulders. She spots the silver glint of a rod standing against the desk behind him. It looks like Valyrian steel. “They stay.” 

“Ah, but they might have too much knowledge for their own good.” He grins at Sam, who jerks. "And there's only so much I can do to protect them."

Sam leans into Daenerys’ ear. “Be careful. I heard he hangs around whores, and sellswords, and mummers. He has a glass candle he lights and looks through to spy on the—”

“All true, Samwell,” Marwyn bellows before grinning. “It would do you good to learn how to actually whisper.” When Sam turns a bright red, Marwyn gestures for him to go. “Stand in the stairwell if you would like. This is a discussion best held alone.” When Daenerys stares at him, he holds up one hand and places the other on his chest. “I swear to have a peaceful talk with no wishes to harm you. In fact, I would like to barter with you, Lady Targaryen.” He sits back down. “A bird told me that you were looking for news from the North.”

Daenerys glances sharply at him. Her words come out as hard as steel. “This had better not be a jest.”

Marwyn shakes his head. “I saw it through my famous glass candle before I came to meet with you. If you are not convinced, let me tell you what I saw. A pretty redhead wrapped in dark furs stalking the top of the castle walls, a cloth mask wrapped around her face, blue eyes like ice, as she ducks beneath a barrage of flying fire, green-tongued. A massive army outside the walls sieges—”

“That’s enough!” Daenerys clenches her fists, tightening them, as Sam and Gilly step closer to her, glancing at her. “Go. Leave us to talk.”

Sam reaches out. “That’s not wis—”

“What use would a dead Targaryen be to his goals? And even if he tries, I am not helpless.” She grips her dagger. “Wait down the stairs if you want.”

Sam glances at Gilly, who nearly darts down the stairs immediately. Sam takes longer to turn away with a mournful expression before he lumbers down after.

When their steps fade away, Marywin nods. “A good choice.” He spins the tome of the Targaryens’ history on the desk, book whirling on the edge of its spine. “Were you aware that the wars back when your family fought each other were great and terrible? Brother against brother, against sister, the whole of Westeros crashing against each other like broken, furious waves. Dragons fought against dragons—great, horrendous creatures tearing off each others’ wings in the sky before crashing down to the ground like a shooting star. Brilliant. Falling.” He glances at her, smiling. “Much like the Targaryens themselves.”

Daenerys crosses her am across her chest. “Do you have a point to your babble?” 

Marwyn shrugs, spreading his arms. “The maesters nowadays speak of magic and dragons and myths as foolish nonsense that doesn’t work. Often, these men have never lifted a sword in their life or have lived through the years when dragons soared through the skies.” He smirks. “Until now.

“I believe in your cause, Daenerys Targaryen. I believe in your magic and your dragons, and I would help you get what you want. The maesters would rather you be extinct that lift a finger to aid you. All I ask is a small favour.”

“Why would I trust you?” Daenerys’ eyes narrow. “Why would I put faith in anyone you work with?”

“Why should you put trust in anybody?” Marwyn laughs, teeth stained as if with a mouthful of blood. “Least of all, me.”

Daenerys's jaw tense. Her tone rises like a honed hatchet. “You suffer from delusions and think yourself more important than you are.”

“But I am important to you right now. Your fate is tied to mine. What happens to me shall reap its effect onto you sevenfold. If you kill me, the king will use that as an excuse to scour Oldtown for you. There have already been whispers of a dragon nearby for weeks before it disappeared. How much can a one-armed woman escape the notice of the Baratheons’ entire army?”

When he goes on without waiting for an answer. “It would also be against my own interests to cause the destruction of a line like yours. So much history—a living embodiment of magic beyond any maester’s understanding. Some of those men downstairs may say they don’t believe in sorcery and the like, but if they had the chance, they would cut you apart and examine you like the corpses they keep down in the stone cellars.”

Daenerys stifles a shudder. She keeps her eyes on him. “And what do you know of magic?”

“Enough from tomes and texts that others have long forgotten. Enough to teach.” Marwyn hums, tapping thick fingers across his knees. He turns his head to look out the window. “I had a student in Essos once. A woman with a brilliant understanding of human anatomy and magic. She lived in the Dothraki sea. Perhaps, you knew her?” He glances at Daenerys out of the corner of his eye. “Mirri Maz Duur.”

Daenerys bristles under his gaze. He looks far too interested in her answer. “The Dothraki sea is a large place.”

“That is a shame. She was such a talented woman. I would hate to learn if anything befell her,” he replies, softly.

“Then, you should not even ask.”

Marwyn smiles, a crooked line across his face. “Do you know where the Targaryens come from?”

Daenerys glances at him. “Valyria.”

He rests his chin in one broad palm. “But how did dragonriders come to be? Where did dragons come from?”

Daenerys gives him a strange look. “Valyria.”

“But why is it only Valyrians who could tame and ride them? Why are they the only ones who know how to hatch them? To control them. I have heard theories that it’s something to do with their blood.” Marwyn leans forward. “Don’t you want to know why?”

“What good would it do me?”

Marwyn laughs. “There’s old magic in Targaryen blood, which is why the maesters prefer to have it wasted across the ground."

“This is useless talk,” Daenerys says, her tone rough like coarse sand. She recalls his brief description of Sansa. “What do you know of Winterfell?”

He cocks his head. “I saw a great army surrounding it on one side and a great fire on the other, the skies as black as night from the smoke. From the woman I told you about, she barely dodges the wildfire slung over the stone walls as she hurries along the ramparts. Her eyes are reddened, but if from smog or crying, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “That is all my candle showed me. Whoever she is, she is not in an enviable spot, but I have many connections that other maesters do not.” He studies her. “I know some possible allies for the North.”

Daenerys’ fists clench. “What do you want from me?”

Marwyn dangles the book between his fingers, the glint of Aegon’s golden crown on the cover under his thumb. “I ask not much. Just some of your blood or Stark blood—there’s also much magic from that family up north.”

Daenerys bristles. “You will not have a drop of theirs.”

Marwyn shrugs. “I can wait. The king will spill much soon enough.” He stands, the setting sun casting his features in a strange orange glow as if aflame. “I hope you find the allies you need then.”

“Wait.” Daenerys huffs, thoughts spinning. She feels as if she’s going mad. “Why do you want my blood?”

“I have told you, Lady Targaryen, that there is much old magic in even a drop—much power that others cannot even conceive.” He shrugs. “And at heart, I wish to know the answers to mysteries and riddles. Is that such a crime?” He lowers his voice. "And if you must know, there is something odd about Oldtown where some magic doesn't work here."

Daenerys grimaces. She feels the hair on her nape stiffen. “If I give you what you ask, I also want safe passage with the Lannisters back to King’s Landing, and I want you publicly confirming my story. And safety for Sam and Gilly for what they did here.”

Marwyn stares before breaking out into a wide smile. “That can be easily arranged, my lady.” He reaches out to hold out his hand, and Daenerys nearly rams her dagger into his wrist before she realizes that he wants her to shake it. “You are a most excellent negotiator.”

Daenerys glances at his face and feels coldness drop into her stomach. She feels as if she’s made a mistake. “How much do you need?”

True to his word, the maester takes not much, pulling out a wooden cup and a slender, silver blade. He pricks the skin of Daenerys' elbow, and Daenerys watches the stream flow from her vein into the wooden container, uneasiness creeping underneath her skin. When half of the cup fills, he presses a cloth to her bleeding joint and informs her that she should keep pressure on it before jauntily heading downstairs and calling for Sam to clean up Daenerys. He announces the next day that he arranged an audience with the knights who have arrived at the edge of town, insisting it was on neutral ground just outside the walls.

“We do not want to draw too much attention to this exchange.” Marwyn waits at the edge of the staircase on the top steps as Sam binds the last of Daenerys’ bandages to her shoulder and chest. “A one-armed maiden is conspicuous enough.” 

Daenerys glares, “I am no maiden.”

“And you would not fool me otherwise with the rumours of your...preferences.” Marwyn leers, and Sam steps protectively between them, blocking their view of each other. “Oh, very well. Finish your work, boy, and let’s be done.” He heads back down the stairs, steps heavy thuds on stone. 

Sam glances at her, chin quivering. “You don’t have to do this, you know?”

“Do you know a better way to ensure more armies to the northern cause?” Daenerys stares out the window. “Or of going to King’s Landing?”

Sam goes silent. “I would find a way.” 

“I am sure you would.” Daenerys goes silent.

Sam watches her for a while, face sad, before he follows Marwyn downstairs. He pauses on the final step. “Gilly wanted to say goodbye, but the maesters needed her for—“ He stops. “Nothing that should be bothering you.” His steps slip away as Daenerys gazes out, thinking of Winterfell burning on all sides from fire, of Sansa burning, and something in her chest spasms and Daenerys gasps, hand clutching at her heart.

In the cold streets of Essos and on the star-filled nights of the Dothraki plains, in her tent besides her slumbering husband, babe in her belly, Daenerys wonders if she could find a place where she doesn’t need to be Stormborn, Khalessi, or the Mother of Dragons. She could just be Daenerys.

In the brief time at Winterfell, in the arms of her dozing wife, Daenerys thought she at least have a possibility, a flare spluttering into heat in her chest at sight of Sansa’s sleeping face, the warmth of her body. And maybe, in the corners of her mind, she allowed thoughts of bright summers in the north, laughing with Sansa as they ride through the woods, ruling the Iron Throne with Sansa in her own chair next to her. The swell of Sansa's stomach with a babe inside somehow, the serenity of just existing with her wife by her side with no wars, no battles to plan, no kings to fight. The affectionate faces of the Stark family as they welcome her back to Winterfell after her departures.

But perhaps, Daenerys was never meant for a peaceful home and a place to belong to. Perhaps, that shall always just be a dream.

Daenerys stares out to the Isle of Ravens on the Honeywine river, a weathered castle connected to the city by an ancient, wooden drawbridge.

A raven lands on a ridge just outside her windowsill, tilting its head at her and hopping excitedly, cawing all the while. 

Daenerys frowns. “Do I know you, little bird? You act like you know me.” Sam’s voice rumbles up from the staircase, and Daenerys turns. “Sorry, he's calling me.” She reaches up to slide the window shut, and the raven squawks, jumping up and fluttering frantically at the glass as Daenerys turns away.

Daenerys descends on her own to the door where Sam waits. She bids him goodbye and is stopped by a word from him.

Sam hesitates. “If you meet my family on the opposite side of the battlefield, could you spare them?”

“If they act reasonably, yes.” Daenerys doesn’t look back. “But I cannot promise anything. That being said, I will keep my debt in mind should I meet them.”

“At least consider my brother. My father…”

Daenerys inclines her head slightly. “I know something about terrible fathers.” She blinks rapidly. “But I remember those who help me, Sam. And those who harmed me, I recall their faces twice as much.”

She steps forward to the hoist where Marwyn waits, lowering them both with a lazy ease that Sam lacks. They don’t speak a word as Marwyn leads her out around the courtyards, down the bridge and past the gates where they hail down a wagon to carry them to the edge of the city walls. The city is clean, paved with cobblestones, winding roads that lead past libraries, markets, and intricately carved stone buildings with signs signalling public offices. Daenerys notices none of this as she watches the world go by, sunk into her thoughts, the heat in her heart.

Marwyn whistles cheerily as he drops silver stags into the waiting merchant’s hands. He guides her past the gate where the guards stare at them until Marwyn waves. They nod at him and look away as the two head towards a party of calvary waiting at a bend in the road, the trees topped with a thin layer of snow, far less than in the north. He gestures for her to wait as he strides ahead to speak with several of the knights, the sigil of the Lannister lions shining golden on their collars save for one knight whose sigil is a stag. He nods to them before returning to her, smile bright and red. “They will take you safely to King Landing’s to help you reclaim your lands as the daughter of the late Ashara Dayne.”

Daenerys stares. “You actually kept your word. I suppose I can trust you with the tiniest of measures.”

Marwyn smiles. “As I said before, the least of all people you should trust is me.” He pats her good shoulder, and Daenerys forces herself not to flinch at his touch. “ He lumbers off, not even looking back. “Farewell, Daenerys Targaryen. I appreciate your business.”

The knights mutter amongst themselves until the one with a stag steps forward, pulling off their helmet.

A tall knight with short, blonde hair and polished armour stands before her. “My name is Brienne of Tarth. I am here to take you to the king.” 

Daenerys glances up and down the length of the woman, and she suddenly feels small. “You serve him?”

“I serve his brother, Renly Baratheon, and he bade me to aid the king.” When Daenerys stares, Brienne shifts. “It is not common to see a lady knight--”

“No, but it is a good thing. Times are changing.” Daenerys turns away, catching the knight’s surprised expression. “People are too.”

The male knights perk up when they spot her, Some starting to smile with others leaning in with an unpleasant glint in their eyes. They’re batted aside as a stern man with a scar down one cheek pushes through to look at her. He nods and glares at the men behind him, who stiffen and straighten up, expressions slipping from their faces until they’re as cold as stone. He barks, “We ride out.” 

Brienne helps Daenerys up on her own charger before clambering onto the saddle behind her, apologizing for the press of cold steel on Daenerys’ back. The rest of the men pull their horses into formation as the scarred man rides up to the front, peering around them with a squint before raising his arm to signal them forward. 

A raven calls out, and Daenerys glances up to see a familiar cawing bird flying towards her with furious flaps. It cries to her as it darts ahead. It suddenly stumbles, faltering in the sky as if it had woken in mid-flight. The raven wheels around and heads back to the city. She watches its flight back over the gigantic white walls like a ridge of hard bone before it disappears from sight. She turns and stares straight ahead as the horses begin to move forward towards King's Landing.

Daenerys leaves Oldtown with the Lannister guards.


	16. I Speak of the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys rides to King's Landing with Brienne at her back, but the city is not what she imagined as she’s delivered into the lion’s mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to my beta-reader Halifax as always for her feedback and her enthusiasm for the story!

Brienne notices Daenerys’ sharp inhales and asks the knight commander if they could get a wagon to carry her in. The commander begrudgingly takes a look at Daenerys’ pale face and calls his men to secure a small cart at the next town.

A youthful blond man with pockmarks in his face glares at Daenerys sitting in a cart hitched to a horse and laden with hay to soften the jolts in the road. “What? Is she a fucking queen now?”

Brienne’s tone is hard. “She has broken bones still healing. The maester said as much himself.” 

The man spits. “She can ride like the rest of us or better yet, run behind. That cart costs quite a few pennies. Maybe she can find ways to repay us our coin.” He leers at Daenerys while Brienne steps in front of her. 

Brienne speaks quietly, but her words remind Daenerys of brightly-forged steel. “You will not touch her.”

He sneers, not seeing the captain walk up behind him. “Or what? Brienne the Beauty is going to hurt—” 

She punches him in the jaw, stepping forward with her full weight behind the blow, and the knight goes tumbling into the snow, squalling and grasping at his face. Brienne steps back. “If I must, yes.”

The other knights rush in, and Daenerys spots Brienne’s back stiffening as they stare at them, faces darkening, until the captain strolls in. He takes a look at the injured knight and scoffs, “Knocked down by one blow from a woman?”

One knight’s eyes dart from the sobbing man in the snow to Brienne. “She’s...she’s a big woman.” 

The captain glares at him, and the knight ducks his head. “She is Renly Baratheon’s knight, and you will do well to remember this—” he points at the injured man on the ground, “—the next time you challenge her.” He glances at a knight with a blonde mustache and jerks his head towards the hurt knight. “Fix him, will you?”

Another knight with red hair protests, “What? She knocks him down, and she doesn’t get punished?”

The captain turns to look at Brienne. “She will. But that’s up to her lord when I report to him. Not us.” He leaves shortly as the sobbing knight is taken away as the others glare at her.

“You did not have to do that.” Daenerys peers at the muttering knights scowling at them at a distance. “They may find you too soft for their liking when it comes to me.”

“Let them think what they may.” Brienne looks away. “I don’t believe compassion is a weakness.”

Daenerys thinks of Brienne’s fist connecting with that man. “How about a temper?”

Brienne glances sharply at her. “I know man of his ilk. If you don’t show strength right away, he will hound you because he thinks he smells weakness.” She turns away, muttering, and refuses to speak further about it. 

The party carries forth again and Daenerys nearly falls asleep in the cart, which smells of straw and something else that she ignores. 

When they break for the night, the commander separates the men from Daenerys with his own tent and the promise of immediate gelding should they be found on the wrong side. Some of the knights scowl and skulk away while the others nod and set up a rotation for look-out. On their side of the camp, Brienne glances over Daenerys’ bandaged arm and shoulder in the soft light of a nearby fire. “You should have said you were not well enough to ride.”

Daenerys grits her teeth. She lowers her eyes. “I did not want to be a burden and slow us all down.”

“How did you break your arm?” Brienne unwraps the bandages, and her nose wrinkles at the smell that wafts up. 

“I was coming into Oldtown when I set upon by bandits. One yanked me off of my horse, and I broke it in my fall.” Daenerys shifts. “Some of the maesters happened to be on the scene, and they scared off the bandits and nursed me somewhat back to health.” She glances at her hand and thinks of Sam. “I owe them my life.”

Brienne nods, but her eyes soften slightly. “What is your name?”

“Allyria, after my aunt.” Daenerys recites the information in the book on House Dayne back in the Citadel. “Although I have gone by many names in my time while begging.”

Brienne studies her before getting up and quickly walking into the darkness beyond the fire. She returns with two bowls of stew and sparse chunks of rabbit and roots found in the woods. “Eat.” She lays one down in front of Daenerys. “You have a long story to tell.”

Daenerys recounts her time wandering the streets of Braavos, Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, Pentos. She draws on her own experiences of walking down stone walkways at night and gazing into sea nearby, wondering if she would ever have a place to call a home. “I had a friend of my mother who watched me, a grey bear of a man whose eyes had a milky look to them. He had a gruff voice, and big, wrinkled hands that were soft as old leather. He was always kind to me.” Daenerys trails off, recalling Willem Darry and how the day he died was one of the worst of her life. “I travelled the remaining cities myself on wagons and by foot—begging, stealing, doing what little work I could as a child.” She shivers at the offers some of the pleasure houses of Lys gave her for employment when she hardly had anything of her body to offer. “I was eventually found by an ally of my House and brought over to Westeros, but we have been separated through a chance encounter in a battle.” She shifts, drawing her cloak tighter around her. “And now, I am here in your hands.” 

Brienne frowns and pauses, having taken out her sword to clean it during Daenerys’ story. “Who is this ally who found you?”

Daenerys replies, quickly. “Ser Barristan Selmy. He was trying to find someone else and stopped to help me back to Westeros.”

Brienne’s frown deepens. “That was unfair what happened to Ser Barristan. Prince Joffrey had no right to dismiss him so lightly.” She leans forward. “Where is Ser Barristan now?”

Dead. 

Daenerys shakes her head. “I am afraid I know as much as you do, my knight.”

Brienne stares at her. “You don’t scorn me for donning armour and a sword.”

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “Why would I?”

“Most do.” Brienne jerks her head to the tents behind her. “Even my companions are laughing at me right now as we speak.” 

Daenerys shrugs. She thinks of Sansa. “I am used to tall women.” 

Brienne wipes down her blade. “Are you used to women who wield swords and travel as a warrior?”

Daenerys flies around on fire-breathing dragons. A woman with a sword sounds fairly tame. “What does it matter what you are born as if you can fight as well as a man and be as honourable as the best of them?” She adds as an afterthought. “Like my uncle, Arthur Dayne.”

Brienne sits back, awe on her face. “I have heard so many stories of Arthur—the knight that even Jaime Lannister looked up to.” Her expression softens. “I am sorry about what happened to your family.”

“Thank you.” Daenerys ducks her head. “What is your story?”

Brienne shifts, slipping her sword back into her scabbard. “I was never a beauty or a lady, though I tried. My love laid in sword-fighting and tales of knighthood from years ago. I dreamt of one day becoming a knight myself, but I have been...held back for one reason or another by the lords and ladies around me.”

Daenerys snorts. “They think you need a co—”

Brienne clears her throat, cheeks pink. “Regardless of what they want, I continued studying the sword until I met Renly Baratheon who accepted me into his Kingsguard.” Her flush goes darker. “I owe him.” 

Daenerys tilts her head. “If you are part of his guards, why are you all the way out here?”

Brienne sighs, “He asked me to go help the Lannisters search for a silver-haired woman, a Targaryen, they say.” She closes her eyes and misses Daenerys stiffening up. “There were sightings of a dragon flying just south of Highgarden, and Lord Renly believed that there must be something more to the beast.” Brienne shakes her head. “I haven’t found that Targaryen woman, but I have found you.” Her eyes snap up to Daenerys', suddenly sharp. “If you are who you say you are.”

Inclining her head, Daenerys studies the warrior in turn. “If your lord commanded you to do something you consider unlawful, would you obey?”

Brienne blinks, startled. “I...he wouldn’t do that.”

“Please humour me. What if he did?”

“I…” Brienne’s brows furrow. “I would have to ask him why.”

“That may get you killed if he is doing something unjust.” Daenerys shakes her hair back. “I ask, because if you should meet this...Daenerys Targaryen, and if you have the mind to ferret out her story first, you may find someone who may be closer to a friend than you think.” 

“Is that so?” Brienne narrows her eyes. “She wouldn’t want revenge for her father, or to take back the Iron Throne from the king? She would be willing to give up her goals for friendship and one lone soldier?”

Daenerys pauses. “That is a bit extreme.” She coughs. “I cannot speak for her, but she has her reasons for doing so. As do you to serve your lord.”

“I suppose.” Brienne studies her, frowning deeply. “Have you ever met her?”

“Essos is a large place. A single girl could get lost in the Dothraki sea by themselves.” Daenerys tucks her dress under her. “Are you on watch duty, Brienne of Tarth?”

Brienne nods and rubs at her eyes, groaning. “I will be leaving you shortly, but I will be nearby. Will you be all right by yourself?”

Daenerys spots shadows beyond the light of the fire, shapes of men stretched into monsters, and the glint of bright armour. She tenses. “That man you hit—his pride will not let him forget it.”

Brienne shakes her head. “Little matter.”

“No. There are more than half a dozen of them, and only one of you. It is only a matter of time before they decide to teach you a lesson as a woman.”

Brienne looks uneasy. “We are trained soldiers of honour—“

“You are. I would not be so quick to assume them.” Daenerys pulls her cloak closer, though she doesn’t feel cold. “And if not for you, I am afraid. What will men long on the road do to a maiden all alone?”

Brienne stands, alarmed. “I have not thought of that,” she admits, hand on her sword. “I’ll stand outside your tent to protect you if I must.”

“Please.” Daenerys glances behind Brienne to see the shadows of waiting men withdraw, muttering and cursing. “It would give me peace.”

Daenerys heads into her tent with Brienne standing guard outside, relieved that she had persuaded the other woman not to walk into the dark where angry men await her. She slips into the thick blankets, and her mind drifts, thoughts about the last couple of days emerge like half-seen letters. She ponders over Maester Marwyn’s words about the magic she possesses. If one drop of blood wields immense power, how much did she give him? A country’s ranson? A queen’s? What of King’s Landing? Viserys always told her stories of how glorious it was, how it shone as a symbol of Targaryen achievement, a gem of a city in Westeros’ landscape. What would she feel when she saw it? What would happen if the Baratheons discover they have their enemy in front of them? Would Daenerys be taken down to cells where she’ll never see the light of day or would her head be delivered to the rest of the Starks? To Sansa personally?

Daenerys has trouble sleeping for the rest of the night.

The knights press hard towards King’s Landing, following the Roseroad until it merges into the Kingsroad, and they spot the city in their sights after two weeks of riding, travelling through a forested hills. Brienne tells stories of its splendour, the heights of the Red Keep, the spectacles of its many tourneys. As they near the roads leading back to it, they abandon the cart, Daenerys’ arm having healed enough that it doesn’t ache when she moves, and she sits in front of Brienne, jammed awkwardly between the chill of armour on her back and the press of the saddle’s horn in the front somewhere deeply uncomfortable. At times, a raven would fly over their party, cawing before circling back to the trees, occurring so often that the men would mutter that they were being watched.

The party spots a massive city in the distance, and they race towards it, Daenerys’ mouth going dry as they near walls the height of ten of her. The gates of King’s Landing come into view, and Daenerys hears Brienne inhale at the sight. Huge roads with wagons of merchants line the hills around it, the guards at the gates busily halting and inspecting carts as they pass. 

Daenerys stares at the city before looking around the hills where Aegon the Conqueror landed centuries ago, where Targaryen after Targaryen ruled until her father’s era, where she had once thought she would return with her brother by her side. Despite the towering walls and the gleam of red clay in the distance, Daenerys doesn’t feel awed. 

She’s dreamed of returning to her ancestral city, of returning in fire and armies, with a glorious golden crown as she sits onto the Iron Throne, the pride of securing the seat that’s rightfully hers from the usurpers. The longing of finally finding a place where she can meld into the structure and feel as if she belonged. Yet, King Landing doesn’t feel like home. Daenerys feels no less lost at the sight of it.

“I always find it so beautiful.” Brienne marvels at the city walls stretching ahead of her, a round dome peeking over with a red castle in the far distance, stone fingers thrusting into the sky. “They say it was built with seven gates for the seven gods.”

All Daenerys sees are seven ways to break through the castle walls. Behind the city lays a bay of bluish-grey that stretch out to the horizon. King’s Landing itself is massive, a swollen city overfilled with slums and strange smells, the desperate feel of a place hastily cobbled together without thought. It’s not what Aegon I would have wanted for something named after him.

Daenerys wrinkles her nose as they approach the city and covers her face with her sleeve. “What is that?”

“The tanneries. They use piss and dung in their dyes.” Brienne grimaces. “You get used to it.” 

Behind them, the captain surges ahead and cuts through a line of people, horses, and wagons laden with produce to get to the front of the gates. The people bristle, but they don’t challenge him as he barks something to the guards who waves them all through. They ride forward, squeezing together through an iron gate like a gaping mouth, and Daenerys forces down an urge to retch. 

The smell is even worse inside. 

Brienne grimaces. “We’re in Flea Bottom.” She eyes the dilapidated and shambling buildings along narrow streets that wind around like a maze and the dark alleys that lead to somewhere unwanted. In the farthest parts of the alleys, pairs of eyes gleam like animals, and Daenerys know they’re far too large to belong to strays. She glances to her other side, and in the distance beyond their location, a river of questionable colour sluggishly trails through the streets, exiting out into a grate that leads to the sea. A little ways up the river lies a dishevelled square, a tiny gathering place half buried in hay from the stables nearby with wooden benches that could use a washing. It still looks cleaner than the rest of the slums.

Brienne shifts and points at a hill past the river. “Over there is the worst of Flea Bottom where all the… waste rolls down.”

Daenerys wrinkles her nose. “It certainly smells like it.” When Brienne gestures for Daenerys to pull her cloak over her nose, Daenerys quickly complies.

The journey out of Flea Bottom couldn’t be fast enough with its haphazardous street placement, filthy stones, and leaning buildings. Just being in the slums made the hair on Daenerys’ head feel dirty as they climb into the Street of Flour, and the waft of fresh bread and cakes catches her attention and the buildings become cleaner and better built. Despite the sweetness in the air and the rumbles of Daenerys’ stomach, after the sight and smell of Flea Bottom, uneasiness settles into her bones like a torch waiting to spark.

Brienne frowns, glancing at Daenerys’ pale face. “Are you hungry, my lady?” She shouts to the captain ahead of them, and he begrudgingly raises a hand to bring the procession to a halt. He gestures to a nearby inn, and some of the men sigh in relief at the sight. They ride over to a squat brick-and wood building where a couple of youths takes their horses and tie them in the shade of a nearby tree.

The men immediately separate them by heading to the back of the tavern. The captain frowns, exchanging glances with Brienne, who shakes her head and seats herself and Daenerys at a table nearest to the door and farthest away from the others.

“They still haven’t forgotten.” Daenerys eyes the way Brienne’s armoured hands twist and clench into fists on the table. 

Brienne sighs, though she looks troubled. “It does not matter what they think.” She fidgets with her gauntlet.

Daenerys watches her guard’s face. “What is the most likely outcome?”

“Lord Renly may punish me to soothe the guards’ ego.” Brienne frowns. “I would have to do the night patrols by myself.”

“That does not sound terrible.”

“It would be in Flea Bottom.” Brienne drops her head in her hands and ruffles her hair. “At night, it is no place for any lady, and one would only go there to disappear.”

“It may be useful yet.” 

Brienne shakes her head. When she spies all the barmaids at the other end of the tavern, drawing the attention of the boisterous guards, she sighs. “I will get someone to pay attention to us.” She stands and strides over as Daenerys glances around at the nearby tables, their voices carrying carelessly in the din of the inn.

A familiar word catches her attention, and Daenerys nearly spins around before she catches herself. She shifts over to the table on the left as she eavesdrops on a conversation about the ruling king.

“The Baratheons haven’t made much changes for us little folk,” a man with thinning brown hair mutters. “We might as well have not bother fighting to change the kings.”

“The Targaryens were worse. Aerys killed my father and uncle, and his bastard spawn is still out in the world somewhere,” a middle-aged woman sneers. “At least, King Robert is a proper king, and Westeros has grown because of him.”

A stoic-looking man in armour pipes in, “King Robert drank his arse off and chased after whores and ladies alike. Jon Arryn was the one who ran it until he got sick all of a sudden.” He gulps down a mouthful of ale. “I haven’t seen him since the tourney last year.” 

“The one before the rebellion?” The thin-haired man shakes his head, scratching at his hard whiskers. “What a nightmare afterwards. That Prince Joffrey is another King Aerys in the making.”

The woman shush them loudly before glancing around. “You want the Kingsguard to cut off your tongue?”

The man shrugs. “The Lannisters have already taken everything else from me.” He sips from his mug. “Doesn’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne to me as long as I can eat a little better. It could be Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister, or Greyjoy for that matter.”

They get into an argument about a Greyjoy on the Iron Throne as Daenerys goes silent. When Brienne returns with bowls of stew, and she eats without saying a word. Once the men are fed, they pay up and continue onto the Kingsroad towards the Red Keep.

They happen onto a large road that branches into two paths. Brienne mutters to her, “We’re on the Hook now. One way leads to the Red Keep while the other follows the Kingsroad.” The knights pick the path on the left and continued onwards. Daenerys notices the houses looking better-built the higher up they go, the streets well-planned, and the air cleaner than the wretched stench of Flea Bottom. Even the shops and people on the streets are dressed better in new robes and clean armour until the group takes a shortcut through an area marked by a silk banner tied between two trees. 

The party stays close together as they climb towards the castle, passing by clear brothels with men pouring and out with drunken laughter and women in thin clothing barely covering skin peer at them from behind curtained windows. 

“The Street of Silk,” Brienne warns her as a couple of women push open the windows, calling out to the men with sultry smiles and tousled hair. One peers at Brienne and Daenerys as they pass underneath her, and she smirks as she leans forward. “Such a beauty over there in the armour. You just get men’s falling at your feet to court you. Or is it just the ones who couldn’t get a real lady?”

The other whores join in, jeering, and some of the men turn around to smirk. Brienne’s ears go red. Her jaw tightens and her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t say a word. 

Daenerys clenches her fist. She tosses her hood back and glares at all of them. “Better to serve her lord with her own sword than to serve him by sitting on his.”

The woman glares at her. The men nearby let out an appreciative whoop and clap as the other whores peer at her, some of them derisively while others look curious. One calls, “Have you thought about making a living with us? You could fetch a good nightly price and live comfortably.”

Daenerys shudders as others’ eyes darken at the sight of her. One with dark blonde hair leans out the window, tits out, and smirks. “I wouldn’t mind a tumble. I’d even lower me prices to half-off.” 

It’s Brienne’s turn to shield her as the soldier curls one arm protectively around Daenerys. “It’s better not to make enemies of them—they have loose tongues that can be bought with coin.”

Daenerys snorts. “That’s not the only thing that’s loose that can be bought.”

They say nothing more as the whores jeer and call after them the entire street. After ten minutes more of riding, they reach one of the gates of the castle, the Red Keep rising impressively high above them. Daenerys has to crane her neck backwards to catch a glimpse of the top.

The knights disperse, peeling off in pairs as they go about reporting to their various captains. Brienne stops and dismounts before a pair of stern-looking guards waiting for them before a massive golden door. “This is where we part. I have already sent a raven ahead to let them know that the possible daughter of Ashara Dayne has appeared. You will be granted an audience immediately.”

Daenerys stares. “You are not accompanying me?”

Brienne shakes her head. “I must go to my lord to accept my punishment for earlier, and if he lets me, I will return to him.”

Daenerys lays a hand on Brienne’s arm. “You are your own master. You do not need to follow your lord’s every heed and command.”

“You do not understand what it means to be a knight—”

“I assume it means staying true to justice and your own honour no matter what the realm says, would it not?” 

When Brienne doesn’t answer, Daenerys nods, squeezing her arms once before ascending the stairs towards the keep. “Farewell. I pray we meet again.”

The guards nearly seize her, but Daenerys jerks her arm back. They eye her bound shoulder but say little else as they push open the doors and lead her down a maze of massive halls, vaulting so high overhead that it’s as if she’s walking through a temple rather than a castle. Daenerys’ heartbeat throbs in her throat, in her ears, as every step echoes with the weight of her choices that lead her to here. As they approach the throne room, she schools her face into an awed yet humbled expression while hiding her shaking hand under her cloak.

The guards throw open the door without further pomp, and Daenerys steps inside into a room that’s surprisingly bare and absent of most people save for a cluster of them around the far side. Her eyes catch on the violent shape of a thousand swords hammered into a throne, and Daenerys pauses, feeling her thoughts stop as she stares at her birthright, the right of her ancestors for three centuries. The Iron Throne rises into the air like a twisted, frozen breath of a dragon spewing blades, strange stains litter the swords near a figure lounging in the seat, high above the ground from a long line of stairs.

Daenerys gazes at the man on her throne, and her chest immediately lights with fire, a sudden urge rising to strangle the person with her bare hands before gouging out their eyes.

The guards shove her from behind, and she steps forward as someone from the side announces her presence. “This is Allyria, who claims to be the daughter of the late Ashara Dayne of Dorne.”

The figure stirs on the seat, a faint smile curling his lip. “If I were your betrothed, I would have to check to see if you still have your maidenhood with looks like yours. Perhaps, you had already given it to the guards.”

Daenerys clenches her free fist so hard, tension runs up her arm and into her chest. “I had the protection of Brienne of Tarth to keep it safe.”

He scoffs. “What can a woman protect?’ He leans forward, looking down at her with half-lidded eyes that made Daenerys’ skin tingle like a dangerous animal is watching her. “Do you know whom you stand before?”

The guard from behind jostles her, snarling. “Show some respect to the crown prince!”

Daenerys grabs her skirt, curtseying low as she once saw Sansa do before glancing back up at the smirking man dressed in gold and crimson with a lion sigil on his shoulder. Handsome with hair the colour of spun sunlight and a face carved with sharp planes, Joffrey looks every bit the picture of the charming prince save for the cruel expression in his face, the lack of light in his eyes. He tilts his head at her, resting one elbow on the nearest armrest free of blades pointed his way. He clicks his tongue. “Make her go lower.”

Daenerys feels an armoured hand grab her by the nape and shove her so close to the ground, she’s nearly thrown. Joffrey laughs, and the hand lets her back up as the prince eyes her, running his gaze up her body as Daenerys’ stomach roils.

“You have met the next heir to the Iron Throne, and may you recall your respect next time lest I take something to teach you a lesson.” Joffrey smirks from his place on the Iron Throne. “Perhaps, I will yet. Remember these words for you will be saying them to me every day.” He leans forward and opens his mouth. Each word spoken grates her eardrums like a rasp. 

“Long live my prince.”


	17. If I were King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys doesn't have to deal with Joffrey very long. Not when King Robert barges in to greet her personally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the unexplained absence over the last couple of weeks. Not dead, but working through some life stuff that takes precedence. I will try to let you guys know with an edited note to expect extended delays if needed in the future. Thank you for sticking with this story, and thanks as always to Halifax for her feedback.

Daenerys chokes on her rage. 

The prince mistakes her inexpressible fury for contemplation. “You may wonder how outrageous it is that I sit on the throne while my father lives.” Joffrey shrugs, appearing to lounge on the seat, but Daenerys notices how carefully he holds himself from the blades. “It’ll be my gift when I either take that Targaryen whore’s head or when she bends the knee to me.”

Daenerys’s expression hardens. She’d rather melt the throne and him with it.

Joffrey sneers, “Is there something you would like to say?” 

Daenerys bares her teeth, about to answer when there’s a bang behind her. She snaps around to see the tall doors wide open against the walls, a red-faced, heavy man with a golden crown, caught in thinning dark curls, heaving at the sight of Joffrey on the throne. A pack of knights with red cloaks shuffle uneasily behind him.

Joffrey sits up. “Father—“

King Robert roars, “Get off! It’s not meant for you!” He storms past Daenerys, not even seeing her as he stands at the foot of the throne. “You have no right to it!”

Joffrey shrugs and rises, lithe and slender. He takes his time descending the cold stairs until he is in front of the king. “It is my birthright, is it not? I am merely practicing for when I have it.”

Robert lunges forwards, hand raised in a backhand slap as Joffrey cringes back. The king bellows when one of his Kingsguard grabs him. “You dare defy me? You act like he’s your son, not your nephew, Jaime!”

The man called Jaime winces and lets go. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I simply thought it would not do to lose your temper in front of our guest.”

Joffrey dares to smirk, and Robert loses it. He rips himself from the guard and hits Joffrey so hard that the prince’s thrown to the floor, yelping and covering his face.

Daenerys freezes, body locking up on her as she recalls being in Joffrey’s place once, shielding her face from Viserys’ upraised hand. Blood rushes to her ears, and her heartbeat rabbits high in her throat, tight and panicked. Instinct and memory shriek to bolt from the room before it gets worse. 

Robert roars, “After all the damage you’ve done to the relations between the kingdoms?” His hands clench. “If you hadn’t fucked up that betrothal to Ned’s daughter, we wouldn’t be having this war.”

Joffrey pushes himself up, cheek reddening. “She was a traitor from the start. Her father taught her as much—“

Robert backhands Joffrey on the other side of his face, and the prince collapses. Everyone freezes as Robert heaves over Joffrey. Daenerys glances at the guard called Jaime, whose jaw has gone so hard, she could break her blade upon it.

The king sweeps his robes behind him, turning his back on Joffrey. “Take him to his chambers where I won’t see him.”

Jaime steps forward. “Your Grace, what about…” His eyes flick towards Daenerys. 

“I will address her myself.” Robert wavers, teetering. His eyes blink blearily as he focuses on her, a slow smile spreading across his face that makes Daenerys’ stomach twist. “What a beautiful creature you are.”

Daenerys grits her teeth to stop from snapping at him.

Robert stumbles up the stairs, tripping as he reaches the top and slicing his hand open on a nearby blade. He bellows as an attendant rushes towards him with cloth to stem the bleeding. “This cursed throne!”

Daenerys bites down hard on her lip to block the flood of words at the sight of Robert on her father’s throne—the man who killed her brother while the guard who betrayed her father stands vigilant at the foot of the stairs. Her vision narrows onto the sight of blood splashing onto old iron from the king, and she can feel a faint pulse in her body like that of something larger, something not hers. She reaches out and, faintly, there’s an answering roar in her body as if from a tremendous distance. Her body goes slack with relief that nearly makes her cry. Drogon is fine. And he’s coming.

She brings her gaze up to see the kingsguard studying her, his handsome features so much like the prince’s. He remarks dryly while keeping his eyes on her. “The throne has seen much royal blood spilt on it.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Robert turns on him. “Did I ask for your opinion, Kingslayer?”

Jaime stiffens, his mouth forming an ugly line. “No, Your Grace.”

Robert stills as an attendant dresses his wound, shaking her head and advising him to pour old wine over it. The king snorts and dismisses her with a wave of his other hand. “I could be drinking it instead.” He squints down at Jaime, standing beside his throne. “Where is your sister and your father?”

“They are going over the accounts of the realm’s treasury, Your Grace.” Jaime turns, his jaw still tight. “Would you like to join them?”

Robert scoffs, “They want me there like the common folk wants the pox.” He glances at Daenerys and gestures for his kingsguard to stay away to give them some privacy. The men protest, and they settle upon standing halfway across the room, one ear turned towards them.

“Short of visiting me in my chambers, this is about as much space we may get.” Robert smiles slyly, “Unless…”

Daenerys closes her eyes and takes a quick breath. “My apologies, Your...Grace. It would not be proper to meet with you there so shortly after we met. Tongues would wag.”

“They always do,” Robert snorts before sitting back. “Very well. State your story.”

Daenerys gives the tale she told Brienne, but Robert interrupts her halfway with a wave of his uninsured hand. He sits forward. “You say you gallivanted around as a commoner, but your speech and posture is that of a woman used to being in power.” He scowls. “I see it in my wife everyday.”

Daenerys pauses briefly. “I had a loyal bannerman who took care of me until he died at an age where I was so young, I do not recall his face much less his name.” 

Robert tilts his head, studying her through reddened eyes. He raises a hand and gestures for her to climb up. “Come closer, so we may talk.”

The Kingsguard squawks in protest. Jaime strides towards her, hand out to grab her arm, and Daenerys whips away. “My king, you cannot let an unproven woman on the—“

“Do not profess to tell your liege what to do.” Robert turns his eyes onto Jaime who stops. “Unless you think you are above me, Kingslayer. When I turn my back, will you put a blade in me too?”

Jaime drops his hand.

Robert looks back at her. “Come.”

Daenerys inhales before mounting the bottom step and pausing, breath catching. She trembles, tucking her hand into her robe, hoping no one saw as she raises her gaze to meet that of the man who killed her brother. They stare at each other for a long moment, tension crackling in the rest of the room as she lifts her other foot.

Daenerys climbs the Iron Throne.

Her imagination pales to the real thing, the height of its melted and conquered swords towers far beyond her reach. Swords lay flat and melded together to make up the steps--rough, uneven--with a fence of blades on either side acting as guardrails. They do little to slow the rapid pace of Daenerys’ heartbeat, the tears that come unbidden despite herself. Daenerys pauses to discreetly wipe at them, unsure of where they come from and praying that they won’t return before she keeps moving forward.

Her breaths grow ragged as she ascends, her pulse skipping despite herself as she gazes at the haphazard jutting of swords from its sides, like a monstrous iron beast with uneven quills. She stops to touch the ancient blades by her side, fingers skipping over the cool surface, and Daenerys imagines the thousands of times her ancestors must have touch these same swords as they rose to their own destinies. And sometimes fell just as quickly.

Robert clears his throat, and Daenerys shakes her head. There will be more time to admire it later when it is hers.

Daenerys continues until she is only a few steps below the king. The hair on her nape bristles as she curtseys as best as she can on the steps without falling. “Your Grace, your guards are disturbed by having a woman on the same throne as you.”

Robert snorts, “They are tighter than an unbedded maiden. They need to laugh more.” He leans around Daenerys to bellow at Jaime. “Isn’t that right, Kingslayer?”

Jaime looks away. “She has no right to it.”

Daenerys’s vision sharpens, fist clenching. Robert sinks back into his seat, eyes suddenly on hers. His voice goes low. “Now, we may speak more candidly.”

Daenerys thinks about shoving him backwards into the jutting swords behind him. He would die, and so would she, no doubt, but Daenerys could end this war, avenge her family. Jon could always continue the legacy and—

Daenerys starts, realizing she hasn’t thought about him for a long time. She doesn’t even know if he lived through the attack. So focused was she on getting to the throne that she didn’t—-

Daenerys’ fist clench at her side. She closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths before glancing over her shoulder at the long flight of stairs like broken edges of stone. Should Robert push her over in turn, she’d break her neck before she ever reached the bottom. 

She turns around to meet his eyes, and the king sighs, tapping thick fingers along a safe, flat part of the throne. “I know what thoughts I usually have when I see ladies like you, but, lately, they have been replaced with other matters.” He shakes his head. “The North should have never gone to war with us.” Robert stares at her, his eyes dark and tiny in his flabby face. “Ned was my only true friend, and now he even fights against me for the sake of a Targaryen witch who bespelled his daughter. Worse, he knows what this means for the common folk. The nobles can go and hide in their castles, but those outside will be slaughtered in droves. The fields will be soaked with more blood than when we fought against Aerys—“ Daenerys inhales sharply, “—and yet, this still happened.” Robert’s brows furrow. “I wanted to kill that Targaryen girl the moment she stepped onto Westeros, but my Hand advocated for peace.” His brows furrow. “Or so Tywin said he did, but I haven’t seen Jon Arryn since he suddenly took ill last year.” He frowns. “Somehow, she agreed to the idea. I had half a mind to think she would rather come and burn down King’s Landing with her dragons.”

Daenerys shifts uncomfortably. Robert doesn’t seem to notice as he goes on, staring at a far point in the distance, words spilling out like a confession. She asks, “Why did you suggest it then?”

Robert snaps his gaze to her, suddenly sharp. “Because she has bloody dragons. The last time a conqueror came onto Westeros with them, he melted men right into the fields they fought on. That was 300 years ago, and still, nothing grows on those fields of flame.” He tenses. “No matter how much I wanted to tear her head off myself, we needed time to figure out how to kill her beasts. I sent that Targaryen girl up north to marry a Stark to avoid war, but I never thought—“ He grits his teeth.

Daenerys frowns, unable to stop herself from speaking. “Did you consider they would become allies and turn against you?”

Robert chuckles darkly. “I was not worried. I thought Ned would have remembered what the Targaryens did to his father and brother.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Careful, girl. You forget you’re speaking to nobility.”

Daenerys ducks her head, jaw tensing. “Forgive my, my king.” Her stomach twists.

He peers at her before shifting. “We need to end this as soon as we can.” King Robert glances at her pleadingly, eyes red. “I’m not an unreasonable man. I don’t want to continue battle and certainly not with Ned.” He sighs, “But he has betrayed me and given my son’s betrothed away.”

Daenerys bites on her tongue to stop herself from commenting.

“But I can be convinced to end the war and pardon those who rose up against their king if they bend the knee.” Robert drums his thick fingers on the flat side of an arm rest. “All I ask is Daenerys Targaryen’s head delivered to me.”

“The North will melt before that happens,” Daenerys snaps, only to stop when Robert slowly turns to gaze at her, his expression dark. She swallows. “Your Grace.”

“You think Westeros will end in fire and blood rather than reconcile with the death of the last Targaryen?” Robert pushes himself to standing, smearing blood along the grey blades of his thrones. “You may be right with how Cersei lets that boy loose on everyone. Everything he touches turns to shit. Even worse for the realm than this war is either if those two rose to rule.” He shakes his head.

Daenerys waits, a long stretch of silence that ticks by like years before she asks, “What if you attempt peace again with the North and Daenerys Targaryen—“

“The Targaryens are monsters and need to be wiped out. They started the previous war. They started this one, stealing brides not theirs. Even if the entire south burns, I won’t rest until I wipe out the last one.” Robert clenches his fist. “No Baratheon will lose their betrothed to a Targaryen ever again. Not while I breathe.” He blinks, eyes glassy. “I know what it’s like to have the woman you love taken away from you. I’ve lived that almost my entire life.”

Robert gestures to the Iron throne. “I won a massive war and ruled Westeros as its king for over twenty years. Tourneys have been celebrated in my name, and I am one of the most powerful men in the realm.” His hand slams onto the flat of an armrest. “But I would trade it all just to have Lyanna again.”

Daenerys starts. “You would not keep the throne?”

“What monster would pick the Iron Thrones over the ones they love?” When Daenerys doesn’t answer, Robert growls, “Look at how much blood has been shed for this! Would you choose it?”

Daenerys eyes the blades, ugly and twisted, stabbing outwards as if waiting to explode in all directions. Some curl back in as if to cut their owner. She has never thought of anything else but wanting the Iron Throne. Or at least Viserys had never dreamed of anything else.

Robert gives her a strange look when she doesn’t answer. “You would over the ones you lost? The ones you love?” He stands and kicks at it, the hollowing ringing reverberating in Daenerys’ head, the guards startling beneath them. “It is only a chair. A throne is no replacement for a dead lover. You’ll do well to remember that.”

Daenerys shivers, wondering why the words sound so familiar. Robert eyes her balefully before sitting back down and snorting. “You are the first lady in a long while that hasn’t tried to soften me up by asking how I won the war.” His lips lifts into a slightly ugly smile. “How I killed that treacherous Rhaegar.”

Daenerys inhales. She had almost forgotten. “How did you?” Her words come out mechanically, dull.

Robert snorts, not seeming to notice. “He was arrogant, too confident for a man who hadn’t fought a battle with his new recruits to challenge an army fighting for a year. He could have waited for us to cross the Trident and come down weary warriors. He could have ambushed us in the valleys. A hundred ways he could have won, but the thief decided to battle us in the river. And he lost.” Robert taps his fingers, scowling. “He dueled me to a standstill. We fought hard for hours.” He shakes his head. “That bastard made the first slip after fighting for so long, and I swung my hammer into his chest, caving the armour and sending his rubies flying like blood. He was dying when he fell into the river, and I rode my horse over him to get to the Iron Throne, the name of my betrothed on his lips.” Robert snarls, “In the end, he was the one who won. I took his throne and his city. But Lyanna’s gone, and I’m still here.”

He fades into silence, staring out the window. “He still has supporters somewhere. The loyalists loved him even with his death.”

Daenerys wonders if people would say the same after she died. “My...king, why would you tell me all this?”

“To make use of someone not mired in the realm’s politics.” The king gives her a look of regret. “I know what may come next for you. I have already seen how my son looks at you. If he plans to do anything like what he did to Ned’s girl last year, you have my apologies in advance.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to respond when she hears the doors open in the distance, and Daenerys turns her head as if in a dream.

An older man with a grim face, dressed in black, scowls at them on the throne. Beside him stands the shortest man Daenerys has ever seen with the golden hair of the Lannisters and strange mismatched eyes. Robert nods to them both. “So good for the Lannisters to join us. Tell me, Tywin, where is my wife?”

Tywin narrows his eyes. “What is she doing on the throne? She doesn’t belong there.”

“I was feeling generous, and let her have a taste of something many lords want.” Robert waves a hand. “Why don’t you take her to a guest chamber for now? She has been riding hard, and it is courteous to give a woman rest after a journey. I don’t blame you for forgetting, since you hadn’t had one for so long.”

Tywin inhales sharply, and Robert snorts. The king continues, “Excuse me, my dear Father, could you please do me a grand favour and escort this young woman to a room as far away from my son as possible? I would like her to stay whole for at least one night.”

Daenerys glances at him, but Robert is already gesturing for her to go down. She descends, taking her time as she stares at the iron steps, ones that her fathers and mothers over 300 years have tread. 

Tywin’s lip curls when she reaches him, and he turns abruptly, not waiting for her to follow. 

Robert calls out from behind. “Before you go, tell me, how are things with the Riverlands?”

Tywin shoots a look at Daenerys before answering tightly. “The lords and their allies are being taken care of. Some already have been.”

The short man from before studies her as she walks past, but he stays in the throne room as the massive doors shut behind her. Daenerys turns back to Tywin as he barks something to the guards close to him. One step forwards, hesitating as his eyes dart towards Daenerys. “You have a messenger waiting in the gardens near the Tower of the Hand.”

Tywin smiles wryly. “Good, that’s on the way.” He turns and quickly glances over Daenerys. “You will be residing in the empty rooms that Jon Arryn never used.” He nods to his guards, who step a respectful distance back as he begins walking along the hall, walls plastered with paintings of dead kings and queens, and Daenerys follows.

“You seem to have gotten the attention of the king and the prince.” Tywin glances back at her. “How fortunate for you.”

Daenerys ducks her head. “It is only due to the Lannisters’ great foresight that your knights were able to retrieve me from Oldtown.”

“They were looking for someone else.” Tywin cuts his eyes at her, slowing down his pace so he walked slightly ahead of her. “Perhaps, you have seen or heard of her? Daenerys Targaryen--the last of the former ruling family that caused a civil war which almost wiped out their own lineage,” he nearly snorts. “The sheer stupidity of it all.”

“Oldtown is a large place, and I was not looking for her.” Daenerys exhales slowly through her nose. “You sound as if you have some strong opinions about the Targaryens, my lord.”

“They carved their own graves, Aerys especially. He--” Tywin turns his head away. “--is no longer here, and it would be wise not to speak ill of the dead.” He keeps his eyes on her, narrowing them. “Would you not agree?”

Daenerys bites down her own tongue and waits for her temper to simmer. “Yes, my lord.” 

Tywin studies her further before glancing ahead. “They say that Targaryen girl is in hiding and is waiting for a chance to strike at King’s Landing where we least expect it. She would have to be a complete idiot to even consider coming to the city with its fortifications and think she would be able to take us down.”

Daenerys closes her eyes and wishes for Drogon to arrive faster. 

They climb towards one of the guest tower, falling into silence until they cross into a narrow hallway, archways carved into the red stone while plants and flowers line the path in round pots. A man wearing a dirty brown hood steps out from behind a pillar, a common sword strapped to his belt, and Daenerys almost reaches for the knife in her boot. Tywin merely looks annoyed.

Tywin crosses his arms. “Well?”

The man pulls down his hood, revealing a face that could generously be called ugly. “Is it safe to speak with her here, my lord?”

Tywin snorts. “She won’t be here for long. Not if the prince gets what he wants.”

The mercenary nods, trying to smile with broken teeth and a misshapen nose as he presses a stained cloth into Tywin’s hands, whose nose wrinkles at the touch. “It is done. Walder Frey sends his regards and awaits your response.” Tywin opens the cloth, spotted with dark red, and Daenerys catches something small and silver wrapped in the brown linen--a broach stained with blood in the shape of a fish.

Tywin nods and pulls a small bag of coins from his cloak. He presses it into the mercenary’s hands, and Daenerys stares, body shaking as she scrambles to figure out why her throat hurts at the sight of it. When at last, she does recall, the floor feels as if it drops from her feet, and Daenerys reels, her legs abandoning her, and she stumbles back into a pillar. 

Tywin glances over, pausing. His eyes narrow at her. “Something wrong?”

Daenerys stares at the blood-stained broach. She swallows, heat prickling at her eyes, tightness rising up from her chest that threatens to flood her. She pushes it down instead. “Just the cold, my lord.”


	18. Where the Castle is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leads the defence of Winterfell with her siblings, waiting for her wife to return. But Daenerys does not, and Sansa's left to her own thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for the much late post. I have to confess that while I have been getting busier with other stuff, the other reason why I started to slow down in posting was that I let a few comments get to me, and I started to doubt my own writing. That's on me, and I had to take some time to get my head straight. That being said, I don't know if I can go back to posting 1-2 times a week (and frankly, I don't know how I did that in the first place), but I can commit to posting at least once a month.
> 
> Much love and thanks to Halifax for her feedback and encouragement as always.

Sansa tugs the scarf down from her mouth before ducking below the top of the ramparts, fire sailing over her head. She inhales sharply, plastering herself against the stone buttress as she watches a green arc of wildfire land uselessly in the lichyard, burning itself out as others thud around it.

Turning, she looks to the grey skies and watches for the silhouette of a dragon on the horizon. But none comes. Still, Sansa keeps looking back, huddling low behind a stone wall as the barrage ends and Daenerys doesn’t return once again. 

Bran surprised her a few days ago when Sansa nearly grew half-crazed with grief over the fates of her missing brothers and her wife. Sansa had dropped the mug she had been holding, the remnants of weak tea splashing across a muddied rug in her brother's room. “Why is she on the other side of Westeros?”

Her brother had frowned and shook his head. “She’s injured, but she can still walk. She’s—“ He went silent.

“Why is she harmed?” Sansa grabbed Bran’s shoulders. “What’s happened to her? Is she with Robb and Jon?”

“She’s with—“ Bran’s eyes flicked away. “I’ll keep a watch on her.”

Her brother didn’t say more, and Sansa stole a few hours away to the most shielded parts of the ramparts to watch for her wife’s return. When days pass, Sansa feels the warmth in her chest when she heard Daenerys was alive fade, twisting low in her stomach, almost making her sick. It feels like the time she was six and she learned from father that her favourite hound—named after her sister—was gored by the horns of a stag during a hunt. Too little to understand death, Sansa waited at the kennels for Arya to appear, but she never did. Sansa stayed at the gates day after day until something grew dark and nauseous in her belly, and she threw herself onto her mother’s lap.

Catelyn made soothing sounds as she smoothed away the hair on a sobbing Sansa’s face. “Death happens, but hope deferred makes the heart sick.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “May this help you learn a strong lesson. Do not wait for hope to come when it won’t. Take courage. Fight. Lead. Leave behind what does not serve you.” 

Sansa wiped at her face. “What does that mean?”

Catelyn pulled back to look her daughter in the eyes. “Celebrate her life. Grieve her. Move on and learn. It hurts now, Sansa, but, one day, it will be a part of your story, a part of the woman you were meant to be.” She gathered Sansa’s hands and nudged her gently to look out the window at Winterfell, the smoke rising from the chimneys of the buildings below. “One day, this may be yours, and the townsfolk will look up to you. Use every memory of joy and sadness to do so. Use them, but don’t look back on what might have been.”

Sansa didn’t understand Catelyn’s words, but she watched her mother’s gentle expressions, the firm line of her mouth. An edge of steel and sorrow rang in her voice, and Sansa instinctively knew that her mother had suffered. But Sansa also thought that Catelyn was the strongest woman she knew, and over the years, she listened carefully to her mother’s counsel though much of it did not make sense at the time, studied how her mother stood in front of guards and servants, how she grasped the townsfolks’ hands when they came to her, despite the dirt and grime matting their palms. In Catelyn’s absence, Sansa’s tried to emulate her mother, but something feels off when she recites her mother’s words to others or mimics her tone and posture. It doesn’t feel like they fit. Sansa feels like she’s just playing the part of someone else. 

But Sansa still thinks that Catelyn is the strongest woman she knows until she met Daenerys, and, right now, she would do anything for either of them to be at her side.

Sansa exhales, replacing the scarf over her mouth and nose. Rubbing her hands together, she leans against the stone barrier, cold like ice on her back. She tries to think of how many barrels of ale they have, the dwindling boxes of dried meat left in the storehouses, but her mind drifts back to the warmth of Daenerys’ hips pressed against hers, the way her shoulders shake with laughter in the rare, honest smiles she threw. 

From the moment Sansa saw her, she wanted Daenerys in her bed. She wanted her in her heart. Despite the power of her countenance, the natural command of her tone that even made princes and kings listen, Sansa saw something beneath the veneer of nobility, the sharpness of her eyes. It’s written in each breath Daenerys takes, the fluidity of her movements, the hooded lines of her eyes when she looks at Sansa in bed. It resonates in the air with each gesture, and Sansa wonders if she is losing her mind with the prickling feeling that rises inside like a view into a future no one else has.

Daenerys is a woman with tragedy written all over her.

And Sansa is inexplicably drawn like a sailor on a dark sea towards the only star that shines. 

She pushes away whispers in her mind that ask her if it’s worth following anymore, focusing instead on Daenerys’ drive to her goals, the intensity of her eyes.

Sansa misses her.

She misses her wife in their bed. Running her hand down the curve of Daenerys’ hip, the sharp stutter in breathing when Sansa leans in to nip her ear. Daenerys is more fragile than she lets herself be known. Wrapped up in her sovereignty, her wrath—Daenerys soars above men and gods on the back of her dragons, the sight of them sending ripples of fear throughout the land. In person, she is demanding with every inch of her body, her eyes, a queen whose lowest task is to ask for what she wants.

On Sansa’s bedsheets underneath her fingertips, Daenerys trembles all the same.

A voice rouses Sansa from her thoughts, her surroundings coming into focus like she just broke through the surface of a pond. Bran calls from the edge of the ramparts, limping with dirty bandages wrapped around one of his thighs—a wound from being near the impact of a burning projectile. He looks more beggar than king. “Sansa, come quickly.”

She nods and scrambles under the line of stone, carefully keeping her head down to avoid an encounter with fistfuls of fire. It wouldn’t do to be unrecognizable when she reunites with her wife. 

Sansa reaches Bran without incident, and he sighs in relief, sagging. “Even with my greensight, I do not always know if you—” He glances at her and then over the wall, paling. “Nevertheless, it is not what I called you for.”

She peers around him. “Where is Summer?”

“With the rest of the direwolves guarding the storehouses and glass gardens.” He glances at her.

Sansa’s jaw tightens. “The townsfolk are asking for more food.”

“And more medicine and more healing.” Bran winces as he shifts. “Maester Luwin and his assistants hardly sleep as it is.” 

Sansa turns and stares out in the distance, past the southern mountains. “I would have thought she’d have come back by now.”

Bran averts his eyes. “She may be preoccupied with something else.”

“You know what it is.” Sansa slowly turns to look back at him, and she spots Bran stepping back in reflex. “But you refuse to tell me and yet demand my help.”

Bran shakes his head. “Please, Sansa. Not here.”

Sansa eyes him before she slips around the corner onto the stairs, one arm wrapping around her brother’s shoulders as they steady each other down the narrow staircase. She glances at Bran’s stifled cries, the pain in the lines of his face with the jolt of each step, and her face softens. She pulls him closer, bearing more of his weight, and Bran gives her a weak smile. They crunch down on dirty snow at last, and Bran lets go, hobbling against a stone wall while he touches his thigh. “I will need to get Maester Luwin to change the bandages again.” He exhales shakily. “What tremendous bad luck to be hit by wood splintered from an attack.”

"You were lucky it didn't go through your chest." Sansa frowns. "Have you heard anything from Mother or Father?"

"None of the ravens I sent have returned. I don't think they will." Bran rubs at his eyes, the bags underneath growing darker every time she sees him. He staggers, the wound around his upper thigh having swollen and reddened with Bran insisting on walking around to soothe their frightened people. 

“You should rest. The people—”

“Have injuries worse than mine,” he says, quietly. “Ever since the Boltons started launching wildfire. If they see me hiding in the keep while they’re out in the open, their spirits will fall.” 

“If they see you without a leg because we had to cut it off to save you, their spirits would plummet even more,” Sansa growls. “Maester Luwin said your leg swells because you move it so much. And you have a fever.” She reaches out to touch his forehead, burning like the bright metal of forge. “You are being foolish, fighting so hard with so much to bear and refusing the help of those who love you.”

Bran looks at her. “Is that what you want to say to Daenerys?”

“Bran.” Sansa’s tone cuts like a blade.

His eyes soften. “I worry for you, Sansa. You wait on the ramparts, despite the dangers, as if she’ll come out of the skies to save us.” His expression flickers. “She won’t.”

Sansa’s stomach drops like a stone. “You don’t know that.” Bran gives her a patient look, and Sansa realizes what she said. Her jaw tightens, a blockage growing in her throat, her heart. “She wouldn’t abandon us for something else.”

Bran sighs and turns to the keep. “You don’t know her. You hardly do.” Sansa’s face flushes, heat burning down her cheeks and neck as she grits her teeth. Her brother shuffles towards the great stone tower, and despite herself, she steps forward to wrap his arm around her shoulder, taking his weight again. “You are right. About my leg.” He drops his head. “I won’t be able to keep on it much longer. When I rest, I have to ask you to lead Winterfell.”

Sansa frowns. “What do you mean? You are the heir, and Arya has the better disposition to command.”

“Those aren’t what defines someone people would listen to.” Bran shakes his head. “Haven’t you seen whom the townsfolk look towards when we visit?”

Sansa grimaces. “No one would follow me—a songbird in a cage. They would trail after warriors and royalty like Daenerys, like King Robert, like—“ 

Joffrey.

Her stomach reels, and Sansa’s thoughts darken, her mind going back to his gleeful whispers and the steel against her nape. She hears Bran calling her name faintly as if from down a dark tunnel. She shakes her head, and the world snaps back into focus.

“—sa, what happened?” He scans her face, mouth crooking downwards. “Where did you go?”

Sansa presses her lips together and looks away. “This is why I am not fit to lead.” She says nothing else as they make their slow, painful trek to the keep.

As they near, a crowd of women stop them, rags wrapped around their hands to stop the cold. Vaguely, Sansa could spot on the closest woman the grimy face of a dire wolf bundled around her fingers, its body torn in half. The woman blows into the ripped up banner as she approaches. “My lord, my lady.” She bows her head, hesitating.

Sansa eyes the tips of her fingers, tinged blue. “Are the banners not enough?” She signals for a nearby guard to seize one from the keep.

The woman shakes her head, pulling her hands back and tucking them into her coat. “It’s not that. The rations…”

Sansa’s stomach twists. “I’m sorry, but that’s all we can afford to give to everyone.” The glasshouses are stripped bare as it is. Even the flowers have been taken for medicine and drink, leaving behind broken stems and empty vines. “We have no more to share.”

The woman presses, eyes tight. “My lady, surely, you have something in your storehouses, in your cellars.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Those will barely last us another week. We need to keep them going as much as we can.”

The woman cries out, reaching out for Sansa who quickly steps back with Bran staggering beside her. The woman’s blue-tipped fingers stop when the guards ready their swords, hands trembling in the air before she pulls them back to her sides and swallows. “My apologies, my lady. I did not mean to do that. I was merely frustrated at my uselessness.” Her voice is heavy with bitterness. “I used to be a baker. What use are my hands now?”

Sansa’s expression softens, but she stays back, guards still in position to lunge forward. “We have fire in the keep to warm them. For baking—” Sansa frowns and twists her neck to peer over the walls. “—I can’t say when we could return to that.”

Something catches her eyes in the skies, green bursts of flames soaring past the walls and falling towards them, and she shouts. She shoves the woman back while she brings Bran and herself behind the corner of the nearest house, the crowd screaming and plastering themselves against the stone bridge. The guards scatter, diving to the side as the first of the fires reaches them, smashing into the cobblestones and sending Sansa tumbling back with its force. Bran slams into the wall behind her, groaning, as Sansa opens her eyes, focusing on where the fire split up into hissing green bricks. She spots the nearest one to her and grabs a handful of snow, clustered against the houses where no one bothered to sweep it away. She dumps it onto the fire, hissing and spluttering until it winks out. The guards stare at her before one stumbles forward to copy her, knocking a shelf of snow onto a burst of flames, about the size of a campfire. The other guards spring to their feet and follow suit as the last of the barrage flies overhead, landing in different parts of Winterfell, and Sansa vaguely hears Arya shouting in the distance for the guards to put out the fires. In front of her, the women bolt away, running towards the faint screams of children beyond the courtyard.

Her hearing rings, a tinny white noise that blocks out people’s yelling and shouting as she stares at the pile of snow she just threw. She nudges part of it away, and her stomach roils at the sight of a blackened hand poking through, smoke still escaping through the white of the snow.

“They’re throwing corpses again—more of their own soldiers.” Sansa turns to Bran behind her, on his hands and knees with blood dribbling down from his hair. Her heartbeat skitters, and she leaps towards him. He moans when he reaches her, pupils dilating until his eyes are almost black, and he vomits onto the stones. Sansa grabs him, steadying him as his head lolls on his shoulder. Her voice comes out high as one of the guards approaches her. “Get Maester Luwin, and help me get him into the keep. Be careful with his head. Hurry!”

The guards carry their lord to his room as carefully as they can, and Sansa stays by his bedside, watching as his eyes shift beneath the lids, and Bran twitches, shouting sometimes. When the maester arrives, he immediately latches onto her brother, checking his eyes, his neck, the cut on his head that Sansa cleans. His expression grows graver than usual, cheeks a bit more gaunt. “Do not let him sleep for long, my lady. Not now until the next day.” He hands her a leather bag filled with snow. “Put that on his wound for a bit and then rest. Do not press hard. Ask him simple questions to keep his mind here, and send for me the moment he cannot answer. Wake him frequently for the next day.”

“Will he recover?” Sansa glances up, taking the bag from him.

“If given enough rest, yes.” Maester Luwin’s face darkens. “But we don’t have time.”

Sansa glances at her fingers. “I know.” 

Maester Luwin studies her. “Your father and mother should have returned by now to fight the Boltons.”

“I know.”

“As should have your new bride.”

Sansa says nothing.

Luwin’s expression softens, and he turns away. “Bran should wake up within a day. But the attack left the injury on his leg even worse.” He gestures to Bran’s thigh, which had swollen from the impact to twice its size, and started oozing a foul-smelling pus. “We may need to get rid of it to save him.” He looks at her.

Sansa inhales sharply. “I cannot give the order. That is Bran’s decision.”

“He may not wake up in time to give it,” Luwin counters softly. “You are the next heir in line who can.”

Sansa bites her lip. “Arya—”

Maester Luwin snorts. “That girl is too much of a lone wolf to be of use to you the way you wished her to.”

But wolves don’t live alone. 

“She should also be here to help decide if…” Sansa swallows. “If Bran doesn’t wake up.”

Maester Luwin nods, leaning against the doorframe, eyes fluttering shut. He looks so tired. “As you wish, my lady.” Luwin grows more gaunt with the lack of sleep, his cheeks more hollow and the bags pronounced under his eyes. Sansa watches him work through all hours of the night on the sick, the injured, the scared. In recent days, he waits primarily on Bran who lapses between periods of fever and the cold silence of his warging, eyes moving rapidly under his lids as if seeing a nightmare. 

Sansa ventures. “Perhaps, you should rest—”

Maester Luwin shakes his head. “When I am dead, my lady.” He leaves, passing through the doorframe without another word. Sansa sits alone, disturbed.

Arya arrives shortly afterwards. She closes the door behind her, eyes taking in Bran and Sansa sitting beside him, jaw working, a blotch soot smeared on her cheek. She hisses. “You need to take over for him.”

Sansa blinks. “Bran is the heir—“

“Bran is half-dying from his stupid leg and his head.” Arya grits her teeth, wiping at her eyes. “Our people don’t need to see him fallen.”

Sansa’s stomach sinks. “Someone like you or Daenerys would be better. You are both are more talented—“

“She’s not here, so stop relying on her!” Arya steps closer when Sansa flinches back. “And have you seen how people look at us? They like me, but they trust you, Sansa. They turn to you when they ask about food, shelter. They watch you and your reactions when they’re scared or uncertain.” Arya huffs, “Haven’t you noticed?”

Sansa inhales sharply. She pushes away the memories of how the guards and the crowd watched her earlier this morning. “We will need to fortify what little we have and prepare to dig in. Father or Daenerys should arrive with reinforcements—”

Arya sags. “It has been weeks. Do you really think she’s coming back?”

Sansa reels. “She will.” She rises, anger tight in the throat. “She made a promise—”

“What if she can’t return? What if she doesn’t want to?” Arya peers at her, undisturbed at how Sansa towers over her. “You know your wife, Sansa. Is she the type to put something off if she can do it?”

Sansa’s throat works. “She will return for us.”

Arya just looks at her.

They say nothing more on the topic as they divides Bran’s duties between them. Arya heads off to talk with the master-in-arms about a counterattack while Sansa watches over Bran, wearily plotting an evening route in her head to visit the people nestled in their keep and around to reassure them. She calls for a guard to relay her orders of cleaning up the corpses, seeing if the glasshouses require repairs they can ill-afford, and asking Maester Luwin to check if any ravens have arrived from her father, her mother, or Daenerys—

Sansa exhales and stares down at her fingers twisting together in her lap. She recalls how she nearly cried when Bran announced he had found Daenerys in Oldtown a few days ago. He ceaselessly warged and flew further south each time he searched, his sleep growing longer each time. She had watched over him like a hound, only pulling away when Arya came to peel her away or when one of her guards asked her to look into a request for a townsfolk. When he awoke and announced that Lannister men were taking Daenerys away, Sansa nearly bolted for the stables to ride down south, regardless of the fires and surrounding army.

“If you get struck down or captured the moment you leave the gates, how will Daenerys find you?” Arya had hissed, hauling Sansa back, who was straining forward like a wayward horse. “Think, Sansa. Your family isn’t just her.”

So, Sansa waits and waits. The nights crawl by as questions about why Daenerys is going to King’s Landing surfaces. Her worries of kidnapping vanish when Bran confirms that there is a lady knight protecting Daenerys the entire way there. Sansa had more concerns, but Bran lacked the answers to them.

Bran flits in and out of consciousness. Once he wakes and murmurs something like, “Rickon knows the way out,” before lapsing back into sleep before Sansa could ask what he meant. When Arya comes to take vigil over him, Sansa leaves with questions in her heart, wondering why Daenerys hasn’t returned. She shakes her head, hands trembling, as she checks over the supplies, wading through the crowd who cry out as she talks with the frightened women, the coughing elderly, and the agitated children. She converses with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik about Bran even as the maester mutters that his herbs only keep the swelling in her brother’s leg at bay and that Sansa will soon have to decide. Sansa defers the decision until Bran wakes up, sweat dotting her nape at the idea that she would have to be responsible for choosing whether her brother keeps his leg or not. 

She asks him on an evening when he’s more lucid about why he slept so much prior to Daenerys’ arrival. Bran cocks his head. “The old gods leave instructions in dreams as it goes in the stories Old Nan told me.” He goes quiet. “Haven’t you seen them yourself?”

Sansa wrinkles her nose. “Instructions?”

“Visions of what will happen, scenes of what is happening now.” Bran runs a hand through sweaty hair, tufts sticking up at strange angles. “Sometimes, I even walk into something, feeling as if I have been there before and have already seen what happens. Those times, I don’t remember the dream.”

Sansa shakes her head. “My dreams...I wish I didn’t recall them.”

She doesn’t say anything more despite Bran’s clenched fingers.

One day, Bran wakes and announces Daenerys arrived at King’s Landing.

Sansa grabs his shoulders, and Bran cries out in pain as his swollen leg is jostled. Arya shouts and tries to peel Sansa’s fingers off, but Sansa’s grip is like iron, like steel. “Why in the old gods’ name would she go there?” Her thoughts reel into one another, battering each other and scattering like a panicked herd. “They must have taken her, kidnapped her. They plan to torture her—“

“She went willingly.” Bran sits, looking at her, and Sansa jolts. She lets go. “She must have plans for the crown.”

“The cro—no, she must have other thoughts. Maybe to rescue us.” Sansa ignores how high her voice goes. 

“She traveled willingly with Lannister and Baratheon men.” Bran frowns. “I usually am willing to see another’s viewpoint, but I cannot imagine what she is thinking.” 

“She wouldn’t—she can’t—“ Sansa recalls the fervor in her wife’s eyes whenever she talks about her destiny, about taking back what is hers. Bitterness floods Sansa’s mouth like the copper tang of blood. She glances away, something tightening in her stomach, pricking at her eyes. “It’s always the Iron Throne with her.” 

Bran leans forward. “Sansa—“

Sansa’s throat tightens. “I wanted to believe otherwise. I was foolish to think anyone would come home to me.”

Bran reaches out and squeezes her hand. “What she does is not a reflection on you.”

“You forget that I married her,” Sansa spits out. “Everything she does will come back to me.” Did Daenerys think of her as she went to Kings’ Landing? Did she even care?

Bran looks pained. “Perhaps, she has some other reason to be there.”

“When you find out what it is, you can let me know.” Sansa stands, sweeping her robes behind her. Her voice makes Bran flinch. “I have people to protect.”

“Sansa—“

The door opens, and Arya steps in, pausing at the threshold as her gaze takes in the tension in Sansa’s shoulders, the look of something breaking on Bran’s face. “Should I come back?”

“We’re done here.” Sansa strides forward, brushing past her sister while Bran calls behind her. 

Sansa checks on the guards, the ramparts. She runs into Ser Rodrik who is instructing boys hardly old enough to be called men to pour hot oil on any invaders who comes close to the walls. At her approach, he turns and nods before returning to his charges and commanding to stand alert and watch the forests beyond Winterfell. He strides over to Sansa who guides them to a stone alcove carved into the walls, a pocket of silence in the buzzing of the castle.

“My lady.” He examines her closely, frowning. “What have you coming up here?”

Sansa inhales sharply. “Tell me truly. Do we have any chance of winning this siege?”

Rodrik eyes her sharply. “We might have, had we left the villagers outside.”

“Then, we were doomed from the start.” Sansa stares at her trembling hands before she whispers to the master-in-arms. “They must be dying and running out of resources.”

He nods. “They are, but so are we.”

Sansa exhales and lowers her head into her hands. “What are we to do?”

Rodrik glances sharply at her. “We are not helpless, Lady Sansa. Not unless we believe ourselves so.” He stands, hand going to the pommel of the sword on his hip. “You will eventually need to make a hard choice, my lady. For a situation with stakes like these, there is no other way.”

Sansa stares. “What choice?”

“I do not know. That will be something the gods will give you when the time is right.” He keeps his eyes on her. “That is the price you must pay for being a lady of Winterfell.” Swiveling, he turns to return to the ramparts. “Speak to your people soon, my lady. They need to hear something from you.”

That night, Sansa gathers the townsfolk in the courtyard by the keep, figures of women, children, and the elderly huddled together and shivering under a light blanket of snow. Sansa stands alone on a platform raised on a broken slab of stone while her guards stand behind her and to her sides. Lady waits in the shadows behind her with the guards, ears pricked forwards. In front of the multitude of eyes, Sansa straightens up, spine stiffening into iron, and, for a moment, she imagines she borrows the natural command that Daenerys wields like a weapon.

“We stand on the precipice of our demise. We have withstood a barrage of fire, mortar, and bodies from the Boltons, and we have not broken.” Sansa raises her gaze to meet the frightened eyes watching her. “Soon, we will make a decision about what action to take, and I stand here to assure you that your lives are always on the forefront of my brother’s mind. Of my own.”

A voice cries out in the back. “But what about food? Some of us have been peeling leather strips off of boots to eat!”

The crowd breaks out into a hiss, surging forward like an angry animal. Sansa stands her ground, though she spies the guards tensing out of the corner of her eye. She holds out a hand, and the people before her immediately hush—their deference to their lords and ladies as binding as a brand on their skin.

One woman in the front speaks, hunched over with wrinkles lining her face like crinkled parchment. “In the morning, me and a few others can go out to fight the Boltons.”

Sansa stares at her, studying the tremble of one hand on a makeshift cane, the huddle of small children who cling to the woman. “You would die the moment you left the gates.”

“But there would be a little more food for everyone if we did,” the woman insisted, gently reaching down to take the hand of a girl no older than six summers. 

Sansa reels, taking a step back as Arya glances over, concerned, snow scattered around the hood lying across her back. Shaking her head, Sansa takes a breath before opening her eyes, something wrenching in her chest when she meets the determined gazes of more elderly gatherers around her. “There is no need for that.” She forces her voice to ring out clearly, powerfully, as she imagines Daenerys’ might before a crowd. Sansa wonders how things got so bad. “We will have an answer to our situation tomorrow. I feel it in the air. I feel it from our gods.” 

One woman steps forward, clothes hanging off of her frame, cheeks gaunt as her eyes bulge wildly. “You have done nothing but watch us starve and burn. Maybe it’s time to take matters into our own hands.” Her voice rise dangerously on each syllable, hanging high in the air, blurring together hysterically. “Why don’t we just surrender?”

“The Boltons would slaughter all of us the moment the gates open if we are lucky. If not, they will do worse.” Sansa exhales, keeping her gaze on the tense woman in front of her, who doesn’t look convinced. “Tomorrow, you will have your answer from me.” She pauses, the crowd waiting on her words as they are struck for breath together. “If not, I will lead your charge outside myself. You have my word on it.”

The crowd goes silent before a murmur breaks out in a ripple, spreading unintelligible whispers that Sansa barely hears over the heartbeat in her ears. She watches the older woman who spoke earlier squeezing her eyes shut and muttering something to the children—a prayer, a curse perhaps. They drift away from her in clumps and pairs, shoulders hunched together, head down, until Sansa waits alone on the platform with Arya and two of her guards. 

Breathing comes hard and fast as tension radiates up her arms, and Sansa realizes that she’s been clenching her hands so hard, she’s broken the skin on her palms. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Arya stepping forward, shooting a look over her shoulder as the guards subtly shift back.

“I don’t need your pity,” Sansa tries to growl at Arya, voice breaking.

Arya gives her an unreadable look. “You’re not her. You don’t have to pretend to be invincible.” She lays a comforting hand on Sansa’s back before clearing her throat. “Whatever you choose, I will support it. We are sisters. I have your back as you have mine. Through whatever happens, through whatever you think you’ll lose, you will always have me.”

Sansa blinks, eyesight suddenly blurring and she turns her face, wiping at her eyes while Arya discreetly looks away. “...thank you. It’s more than I deserve.”

Arya’s expression sags. “When are you going to realize that you deserve more than you allow yourself?”

Sansa doesn’t answer. She turns away towards the direction of the Godswood. “I must pray alone.” She makes her way towards the woods, and Arya doesn’t stop her. The guards follow at a distance as Sansa shuffles through the snow, thoughts as dark as the trees around her. When she arrives at the heart tree, she falls to her knees and clasps her hands together as she desperately tries to look at the tree’s face, rendered unknowable in the darkness. 

“Please.” Sansa closes her eyes, hands squeezing tightly. “Please.”

The gods don’t answer, though Sansa stays until the moon is high overhead. 

That night when she sleeps, she passes through her dream with clenched fists on her sheets, sweat dotting her skin. Tears slide down her cheeks in wet trails, and Sansa sobs in her sleep, crying out half-slurred names of people she holds dear to her heart. But when she wakes the next day, she doesn’t recall a thing.

Sansa opens her eyes in the crispness of the morning light, feeling as if in a dream she’s seen before. She rises, her hands and limbs moving automatically as she washes her face and dresses for the day, pausing to throw on her cloak lined with thick, black fur—the one she uses to go hunting. An instinct, an unintelligible impulse tells her to take it, despite being far too heavy and warm to wear within the keep. Before she leaves, she pulls a red and black cloak from a stool, resplendent with a three-headed dragon and bolstered by the sigils of a direwolf. Expression still, she examines the clever stitching, the careful needlework on the arches of the dragon’s neck, before she tosses it over her own shoulders, tucking in the dagger she keeps at her bedside close in a leather sheath.

Sansa climbs down the Great Keep as if in a fog, her hands and feet feeling like they belong to someone else. Like she’s just a puppet on a lonely string. The guards salute her, expression grave as a nearby cook, cheeks thin with hunger, hands her a chunk of bread and a handful of cheese crumbs, apologizing all the while. Sansa shakes her head and gently pushes the food back into the other woman’s hands before she steps out the massive keep doors and into the striking sunlight. The skies are oddly clear over Winterfell, despite the swirl of dark clouds creeping near the castle. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees people milling closer to the Godswood, to the courtyards near the crypts and the lichyard, though normally they would give a wide berth to the latter two. Strange. But not as strange as the calmness that settles in Sansa’s chest like a cold breath—not one of tranquility nor peace but one like somewhere in her heart, Sansa made a decision and she would accept the consequences, even if it all ends badly. Even if her story isn’t meant to be a happy one. Sansa will go on anyway.

A voice calls to her, and Sansa turns to see the straggly woman from the night before, glaring from the bottom of the steps. Despite her sneer, something tells Sansa that the woman won’t approach, so Sansa waits, poised like the statues posted in the crypts. 

The woman stares, eyes darting to the guards behind Sansa. “Need your dogs to protect you?”

A growl sounds behind Sansa, and the woman looks up, paling and stumbling backwards as Lady slinks To Sansa’s side. Lady fixes on her eyes on the woman, who nearly slips on stone when she scrabbles backwards, and Sansa rests her hand lightly between Lady’s ears.

Sansa turns to the other woman. “They’re called direwolves.”

The woman sneers, “Odd how you have so much protection for yourself and yet none for your people.” She clenches her jaw, “You nobles never do enough. You always think of yourself.” She raises a fist, shaking it wildly, as the guard near Sansa draws his sword. “It’s time we do something ourselves!” She twists around and darts into the crowd surging past, as the guards swear and one tries to tail her. 

Sansa hears her heartbeat in her ears, a final, dreadful beat that sounds like slow drumming at a dirge. Something feels like it clicks into place—a feeling of resignation to a fate she knows she can’t avoid. She turns to the guard beside her. “Tell everyone to round up as many people as they can and herd them near the crypts. Bring my brothers as well.”

The guard’s dark brows narrow, bristling and topped with flecks of white. “Why the crypts?”

Sansa looks past his shoulder to the direction of the Godswood. “Just a feeling.”

The remaining guards scatter to follow her command as Sansa descends the stairs, each step feeling strange and slow. She makes her way to the crypts herself, fingers trailing along the walls as if to memorize what she could of Winterfell. She glances up, watching streaks of fire fly over the walls and land in various places in Winterfell. Turning from her place under a stone archway, she watches the barrage fall like a hail of dying stars.

Sansa burns as the Boltons attack again, watching wildfire landing and spluttering out in the snow in winks of fury. Her fists clench tightly at the sight of the assault sailing over the walls. How many more times will it happen until something breaks? She lets out a breath as a whisper sounds briefly in the back of her mind, and she relaxes, exhaling through her nose. Something tells her that this will be the last time. 

When no more fire comes, Sansa steps out, continuing on her way until something tells her to go to the nearest gates. She goes, stopping at the stables where Ser Rodrik walks out with the reins belonging to a mare in hand.

He stops in front of her, handing them to her. “I just had a feeling I should be here.” Ser Rodrik glances at her. “Why have you come, my lady?”

“I suppose it would be the same feeling.” Sansa turns to the gates where a darkly-garbed group huddled close to the guard around the switch that opens the passage. Ser Rodrik follows her gaze, but he moves too late as the group seizes the young guard and stab him, the crazed woman from before yanking the switch to the ground. The groan from the gates lifting blast out like a death keel.

Ser Rodrik whirls around. “No!” He takes a step forward, but the gates are already rising, men with a flayed man on their shields stepping in. Sansa glances overhead to the skies as if to search them one last time for the sight of Drogon flying overhead but none appear.

Daenerys left them to burn.

The gates reach the top, and the hysterical woman from before dances with her hands up as the Bolton’s army marches through, swords held at the ready. She throws herself onto one soldier, mouth open in relief when he brings his blade down across her chest, and she screams, dropping to the ground as he kicks her to the side. 

Sansa’s jolted back to her senses when Maester Rodrik grabs her by the waist and tosses her onto the mare. “Get your siblings and run. I will buy you as much time as I can.” He slaps the horse’s rear, the mare leaping down the cobblestones as Sansa snatches the reins to avoid falling off. She looks back, swallowing a cry as the old master-in-arms unsheathes his sword. A group of Bolton men—the sigil of a flayed man bright red on their shields—charges him, and Rodrik steps forward to behead the first one before he’s swallowed by the crowd.

Sansa blinks away the burning in her eyes and turns to look ahead, the mare nimbly dodging around debris as the alarms ring out behind her, their brassy tones sending her nerves skittering like thin fingers dancing frantically along a string. The mare races around stone archways, under burning bridges, and around the corners of the courtyard until they arrive before a cluster of frightened women and children in front of gigantic, ancient doors. Lady rushes to her, ears flattened against her skull as Sansa dismounts the mare, something cold and powerful burning in her like a river bursting through her veins. “Everyone, get into the crypts.”

The guards stare at her until she barks the orders once more, and they jump into lines, a pair working to open the massive doors. The townsfolk squeeze through in droves the moment a gap appears, and the remainder of the guards shout for them to move in orderly lines. Women scoop up their children as they rush by her, the elderly hobbling on their heels. Sansa spots Bran leaning on the wall close to the doors with Rickon watching her closely, eyes darting between her and the crypts. “Is everyone here?”

Bran studies her, mouth slightly agape. He shakes his head. “The guards gathered all that they could before the attack, but most of the women and children were already here, like something was calling them.” He glances behind her before paling. “I thought Arya was with you.”

Sansa holds her breath. “She’s not here?”

“No, she went out to find you when the alarms started ringing—“

Sansa whirls around, grabbing at her dagger when Bran latches onto her arm. “I need to go retrieve her—“

“Sansa.” Bran’s voice sounds pained. “There’s no time.” 

Sansa whips around. “I will not leave anyone behind—“

Bran spreads his hands pleadingly. “And risk leaving these townsfolk to die without your light? Your thoughts?”

“They have you—“

“For how long?” Bran shuffles, showing the dirty bandages wrapped around his upper thigh, swollen to twice its size with yellow pus leaking from the cotton. He meets her eyes. “How long before they won’t?”

Sansa stops, feeling as if the castle is collapsing around her. “You’re not going to—“

“We have to be prepared for anything.” 

Sansa shouts, "You would leave your own sister?"

"You think this doesn't hurt me too?" Bran tries to straighten up on one leg, but he collapses, shaking against the stone wall. “We're in charge, Sansa. People look up to us, like Father said. We don't get to give in to our emotions anymore." He wipes at his face. "I’m sorry for making you do this. But you have to choose.”

Sansa stares and then over her shoulder at the courtyards where screaming can be heard in the distance, growing louder. “We can’t stay here.”

Rickon tugs at her dress, having snuck closer. “We can always run away, Sansa,” he says, quietly. “Shaggydog found a way out.”

“I can’t—I won’t—” Sansa blinks, vision blurring. “I’m not like Daenerys or Mother or Father.” 

Bran meets her gaze. “We don’t need you to be them. But you need to decide, Sansa.” Bran closes his eyes. “I can’t. I won’t be here much longer.”

“What do you—”

A shout catches her attention, and Sansa turns to see a band of grim, snarling soldiers swarming into the courtyard, swords slick and bright red with the sigil of a flayed man on their shields.

Sansa swallows as she grabs Bran and half-carries her brother into the crypts, Rickon and Shaggydog bounding ahead. She screams for the doors to close as they stumble inside, and the guards slam the doors shut, bolting them into place when something slam against them. The wood groans but holds on, and the pounding builds into a fervor. She turns to meet the gazes of her people on her, children and guardsmen frightened alike, huddling close as her presence brought them safety alone. Their eyes feel heavy, like the weight of the iron rings outside on the doors. And the life of a sister.

“I’m sorry. I'm sorry. Gods, I'm so sorry. Arya—” Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, a retch rising through her throat at what she’s done. Pleas and questions fill the silence of the crypts, and the soft cries of the children echo in the emptiness. She feels Bran reaching toward her, and Sansa steps away, ducking her head. She grabs a nearby torch from the wall and strides through the crowd as they part before her, feet following on empty stone while Sansa moves forward, begging her thoughts to be on anything but the one she left behind.

When she reaches the front, Rickon holds out his hand for her to take. She does, watching Rickon and Shaggydog turn their eyes forward into the darkness. She keeps her gaze ahead, thinking about how the caverns of the crypts feel as empty as the spaces in her heart. 

Sansa takes a breath, closing her eyes. She thinks of Winterfell burning behind her—of the people still caught outside—

Of Daenerys and how she never came back.

Ice slips into Sansa’s veins, and something wonderful, something fragile breaks inside her. The warmth in her chest at the thought of her wife dims, growing colder until the weight sits uselessly in her chest like worthless scrap iron. An urge to fall to her knees and weep rises, but she shoves down the thoughts of her family viciously, her mind feeling clear and distant for the first time in a long while, like thick ice above a dark blue lake. She steps forward as she leads the remains of her people deeper into the crypts.

Sansa doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's writing notes: This chapter was very hard to write emotionally, since there's so much going on and Sansa's going through so much. It was also a spur-of-the-moment idea that wasn't pre-plotted (not that I follow my guidelines very well), so my brain had to figure out how to cram so many events and much character development in one chapter. This was actually one of the hardest chapters I had to write to date, which is excellent from an improvement perspective. I find that when the chapters are difficult ot write and I push through anyway, I become better as a writer overall.
> 
> Just adding some thoughts on the writing process here for those who are interested.


	19. A Dream Within a Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys deals with the news about Catelyn and gets an invitation to speak with Tyrion Lannister. What does he want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry belated Christmas, all. I did miss an update last month, and this one's shorter than normal. I realized that the chapter I had planned would take longer than I anticipated, and I wanted to post something up at the very least before the new year. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thanks to Halifax for her feedback as always.

Daenerys doesn’t hear anything Tywin says as he leads her up to her tower.

She climbs up a staircase that seem endless, a continuous clap of steps on dead stone before she stops in front of a set of ornate doors. Turning, she goes through the motions of a curtsey, her mind a million miles away. Tywin eyes her, mentioning something about being preoccupied with leading the war before he leaves, and Daenerys passes through the room, ignoring the gigantic bed and straight to the window that faces North. Daenerys aches like a wound has opened in her chest. It burns almost as badly as when she lost Rhaego and Drogo, and Daenerys nearly collapses on the brick ledge, slapping a hand over her own mouth as she shakes.

She barely knows—knew—Catelyn. Why is she so affected? And oh gods, does Sansa know? How is Daenerys going to tell her? How could she face Lord Stark and the rest? Her wife?

Squeezing her eyes shut, Daenerys allows herself a few moments of trembling, a sob stifled in the shaking of her shoulders before she exhales, straightening up on quivering legs. She wipes a cold hand over her brow, pushing the feelings and thoughts down into the pit where dreams of her former family remain and closing it off with several long breaths. She stands taller, shoulders relaxing. Her chin rises as she recalls herself giving a speech in front of the people of Astapor, dozens of slavers hanging limply from crosses behind them, and once again, she is Daenerys Stormborn—her shield, her armour, her chosen name.

She needs to be. She can't be the girl who grew up holding the hand of her brother. She can’t be the last name on his lips when molten gold slid down his face—the twisted crown he would never live to wear. Not the girl traded for an army. Nor the one cowering under her brother’s blows, lips swollen and split. Or the one who dreamt of someone who would embrace her as she is—broken and full of scars and hurt—and love her all the same, who wished for her presence as much as she wanted theirs.

She needs to be Daenerys. She can’t be Dany anymore. Dany is just a word on the lips of a dying prince from a lifetime ago—a silly girl with silly dreams that will never come true.

Daenerys inhales, pulling herself together like coiling copper. She is Khaleesi. She is the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains. And she’ll burn King's Landing down until not an inch of wood or flesh is left.

“Drogon.” She holds one hand upwards. “Faster.”

The slight stirring of the wind on her hair and a faint rumbling in the sky is her answer. At the edge of the horizon is a thick fog, an ugly grey smear at the seam of the world. Daenerys frowns at the sight of it, noting that the clouds come from the North and—

Her chest tightens like her heart banging against her ribs. What’s happened there? Why are the skies so dirty?

She turns, about to grab the nearest servant scurrying by for questioning when a gleam of silver below the window catches her eye.

Tucked discreetly under ancient red clay and stone are newly carved slots with the tips of silver bolts just slightly jutting out, and Daenerys’ shoulder jolts with a remembered white-hot pain. She clutches at her bandaged shoulder, still sore and painful from being shredded. 

She hisses at the scorpions nestled across the line of the wall, quietly commanding Drogon to stay away for now. A screech of outrage sounds out in her mind like a quake, and the connection dies. Stumbling back until the back of her legs hit the bed, Daenerys sits down, staring at her hands. She could still summon him but at what cost?

A knock at the door and Daenerys snaps her head up as a servant enters, dressed in gold, and bows, his thinning hair fading from blond to grey. “My lady, Lord Tyrion wishes to have an audience with you in the nearby sitting room.”

“Who is he?” She eyes the servant, still bent over as if waiting for a cue. “Does he presume to command me?”

The servant straightens up, stiffening. “He is the former Hand’s son. You would do well to remember that.” His eyes narrow.

“Oh?” Daenerys rests her chin on an upturned palm. “And where is the current one that I have yet to meet?”

The servant turns around without answering. “If you wish to speak with him, he will be waiting in the rooms up two floors and down the hall.” He closes her door behind him, and Daenerys gazes at the giant oak doors before she shrugs and makes to leave.

She finds the room easily, the doors having been spread open to a lavish chambers dressed in indulgent silk and satin, dyed bright in streams of golds and blues. The short man from before sits at an elegantly carved table with the wooden head of boars jutting out from each of the corners. He jumps out as she approaches, pulling out a chair with a plush, velvet seat beside him, though he doesn’t come up to her shoulder. “Thank you for joining me. I am Tyrion Lannister - the dwarf if you prefer.” He seats himself and raises a hand as if to forestall any questions. “Before you ask, yes, I was born like this. No, I have not joined a travelling minstrel’s party. Yes, other parts of my body are appropriately sized.” He clasps his hands together politely. “Anything else?”

Daenerys eyes his bright, mismatched gaze and the chair before she gingerly lowers herself. “I confess that I was surprised when you had asked for me.”

“As I’m sure Prince Joffrey would be that he isn’t the first to access you upon his recovery,” Tyrion remarks as dryly as if he is commenting on the weather. He leans over the table and pours two cups of pale brown liquid into two porcelain teacups, white as bone. “This is a famous tea from the far east rumoured to promote life, luck, and fertility.” He sits down and sips from his cup, making a face. “And of course, it is as bitter as King Robert.” 

Daenerys stares at him, watching his face closely. “You say that about your royal—”

“I have known him for years, and he would be the first one to admit it.” Tyrion nods to the teapot, painted in faded colors of a golden lion and black moon. “History says this was brought back from Yi Ti decades ago when the Targaryens still had allies who wanted them on the throne.” He meets her eyes before looking away. “And the North is fighting to prove that there are some that do.” He gently sets her teacup on her saucer as Daenerys’ fingers twitch along the arm of her chair. “It is to their foolishness that they continue to battle on behalf of someone who has abandoned them.” Tyrion tilts his head in a way that seems so familiar, it makes her chest ache. “Daenerys Targaryen has disappeared in the last few weeks. It’s clear that whoever’s side she is on, it’s not theirs.”

“She has not—” Daenerys pauses, exhaling slowly. “Perhaps, she is gathering more allies.”

“What for? She has dragons.” Tyrion lifts his teacup, eyebrow raised. “Why doesn’t she just get on with it and burn the city down? It’s the fastest way to win the war.” 

“She would not want to waste all of it.” Probably.

Tyrion snorts. “Of course. The Iron Throne. That’s all people are fighting for nowadays, aren’t they? If she is plotting a way to get the damn throne while her allies are being slaughtered, then she is as cold as the Wall itself.”

“She would think, by dint of birthright, that the crown belongs to her alone and not to some usurper.” Daenerys furrows her brows. “And I would imagine that the North can handle themselves.”

“Usurper? King Robert is a liberator. Have you really heard such rotten tales wherever you grew up? Aerys the Mad King was a tyrant, born and bled. And she wants to bring his legacy back to life? Over the kingdom she’s already amassed supposedly in Essos? That’s as insane as her father. If she wanted loyal subjects and respect worthy of a royal, she already had it. Why come here and start a war? Why leave allies in the middle of it?” 

“Perhaps, even she does not know what she wants.” Daenerys pauses at her own words and frowns. “But that’s absurd.”

“Is it? People have sabotaged themselves all the time, because they didn’t understand what they truly desire in their hearts of heart.” Tyrion shrugs. “Look at King Robert. He’s been obsessed with the same dead woman for the last 20 years, and it’s not the woman in his marriage bed. What do you think that does for the kingdom when the relationship is so strained?” 

Daenerys puts down her teacup, eyes narrowing. “Why are you telling me this?”

Tyrion peers at her, curiously, silent for a moment. “I have my reasons. Part of it is based on uncommon sense and rest on ...let’s say, intuition.” He spreads his hands and shrugs. “I have it on good faith from credible sources that the fairer sex prefer to be thought of as the only one for their men.” He glances at her. “Or women.”

Daenerys’ jaw tightens. “What do you mean?”

“Of the North, of course. Sansa Stark wedded Daenerys Targaryen and broke her betrothal to the prince, causing cries of treason to ring out in the South. Haven’t you heard? The news has been on everyone’s tongues for the last month or so.”

“I...have been far too preoccupied with reuniting with my family to notice.”

“Really?” Tyrion studies her. “It’s the cause of the war between the North and the South, and no one’s told you a word of it?”

Daenerys bites her tongue. The imp is too clever by half. “Rumours are rumours until proven true, my lord. For all I know, the whispers could have been that Sansa Stark married a sheep, and that was the start of the war.”

Tyrion laughs. “Yes, the gossip does grow too incredulous if allowed to do so.” He taps his fingers on the arm of his chair. “But Daenerys Targaryen is no sheep.” He looks at her. The hard glint in his eyes as he scrutinizes makes sweat form on the back of Daenerys’ nape. “If you are who you say you are, you would be related to the Targaryens by blood.” 

More than he knows. “Through the Dayne House?”

Tyrion nods. “The Targaryens have intermingled with all the Great Houses at some point with the most recent being the Starks. The Daynes are no exception, though their connection is farther back. Perhaps, if you meet her, you could negotiate the war on the virtue of being blood relatives.” His eyes flick towards hers. “Surely, not even Daenerys Targaryen is so bent on the throne at the expense of wiping out her own family.” 

Daenreys sits uncomfortably in her seat, feeling as cold and unyielding as iron. “I assure you, she would not.” 

“How would you know? Do you know her at all? Has she done anything to help the Starks in their current crisis?”

Daenerys reels. She stands up, fists clenched. “How dare you--” She catches herself when she spots Tyrion’s calculating expression. Clearing her throat, she presses her hands to the front of her dress, forcing them to smooth down the fabric, though they shake. “That is no way to speak of a relative of mine, my lord.” 

“One you barely know.” His eyes narrow, reminding Daenerys of Tywin what feels like mere moments ago. “What is your story, my lady, and how did you come here?”

Daenerys relays the careful tale she’s concocted and repeated so many times, the words roll of her tongue as if she were an actress in some great drama. Tyrion watches her with hands in his lap, face unreadable. When she finishes, he nods and slowly claps, and the hair along Daenerys’ neck begin to rise. 

“What a tragedy if you are who you say you are.” Tyrion sighs, resting his cheek against his fist. He reaches for a thick book sitting on the table close to him, the leather new and clean while the pages inside are bright, the black scribbles of ink having filled only a quarter off them. He spreads the tome across his legs, studying her while Daenerys spots dates and notes scratched into the pages. “Your timing is very fortunate with the prince’s recent activities.” He turns a page, a corner of his lips tilted up. “He had his uncle’s marriage annulled. Lord Renly was not pleased.”

Daenerys frowns. “Why?”

“Lack of consummation, which Renly doesn’t bother denying. As for my nephew’s motives—“ Tyrion slams his book close, lips pressed together. “—even princes aren’t immune to the sin of coveting. You can tell that to the Targaryens who have a habit of stealing Stark women,” he sighs.

“She was not stolen. She left of her own will.” Daenerys hastily continues when Tyrion looks at her. “Or so I have heard from travellers coming here.” 

“Strange. I have heard that Daenerys forced herself on Sansa much like her brother forced himself on Robert’s betrothed all those years ago.” Tyrion frowns, eyes catching on the tension in Daenerys’ jaw. “Are you implying that it was otherwise?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” snaps Daenerys before she can catch herself. “Sansa Stark accepted a marriage proposal of her own will. That is the most likely answer for what has happened up north.” Daenerys thinks of Lyanna, of the statue in the crypts of a defiant girl long gone. “You could not convince a Stark otherwise.” 

Tyrion leans forward, giving Daenerys a look she can’t decipher. “And is Sansa happy? Is she being taken care of?”

“I…I do not know.” Daenerys frowns. Sansa would be missing her, but she would be well-protected in Winterfell. She hopes. “Why do you ask?”

Tyrion goes silent for a long moment before he reaches for his teacup. “Sansa was my student when she was here. Unofficially, you could say. She had a bright mind and eyes that saw too much.” 

Daenerys shifts, inhaling slightly. “I have heard tales of her stay here. They say it did not go well.”

Tyrion’s expression darkens. “An understatement.” He glances at her, his face closed off. “But perhaps a discussion for another time.” Before Daenerys could protest, he closes the book in his lap and hops off of his chair. He bows and prepares to head out. “King Robert bade me to speak to you and determine if you are a spy from the North.”

Daenerys hides the twitch of her fingers in the folds of her dress. “And your judgment, my lord?”

He looks over his shoulder and pauses. “A gold-digging orphan girl pretending to be the dead kin of a nearly extinct House. Utterly disgraceful.” He snorts and looks away. Daenerys doesn’t get the sense he believes a word he says. “But as proper honour dictates, we will send for your cousin to come and verify your words—to see if you are who you say you are. He will be here in a few days’ time if we send a raven this evening.” He frowns, a furrow burrowing between his brows. “Please make good use of that time.”

He holds out an elbow, and Daenerys leans down to awkwardly take it as he escorts her back to her chambers. He pauses outside, eyes flickering. “When the prince is...composed, he will want to see you.”

“And when will that be?” 

Tyrion shrugs. “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow.” He turns. “But there are many books and wagging tongues to amuse a lady who is waiting for a prince.” Daenerys scowls as he leaves. “Or her queen.”

She stiffens, watching Tyrion disappears down a flight of stairs, and Daenerys reminds herself to breathe as she relaxes her hands. Perhaps, he doesn’t know. Perhaps, calling in Drogon to melt the Red Keep and kill all the Lannister’s is a touch overzealous, especially with the scorpios secreted in the walls of the Red Keep. 

Daenerys takes Tyrion’s advice to heart and trails down the tower’s stairs to listen to faint gossip about the war, the king, and mundane peasant things from an open window above a courtyard where merchants mill on cold cobblestones. Narrowing her eyes, Daenerys charts a mental map of the surrounding area and quickly charts a path to navigate herself down to the ground. A gruff mutter from below catches her attention when she hears mumbling about a rebellion, and she strains forward to hear, but no one gives any indication that anything extraordinary was said. She glances down the hallway, and the barrenness of the halls--not a single guard in sight--makes something prickle along her skin, like a sinister shape in a portrait suddenly seen. She backtracks to her room as the daylight falls shortly afterwards, a servant coming in with a platter of shredded hare meat with slices of bread and apples, cheese that has gone hard. 

Daenerys tastes nothing as she eats it one-handedly, eyeing the doors in front of her and planning her options for exiting the room should the door become unusable. The windows might be feasible if she does not think about falling to her death, or else, she might chance running down the stairwell with her dagger in hand, pulling it out from its hiding spot in the side of her boot. She may have to risk Drogon to the possible traps of the Red Keep, but she will consider it if it comes to that. 

Late at night when her candle run low, she gets a note delivered from Tyrion—a carefully thoughtless scribble with two questions: “Where do your loyalties lie? To the throne or to the North?”

Daenerys scoffs, about to send a reply when she pauses, her quill having already written on the parchment, “The true ruler of the Iron Throne.” Her eyes flicker as she stares at Tyrion’s words, unease settling tightly in her chest. She crumples up the paper and tosses it aside into the nearby fireplace, wondering why she does so. Rubbing at her temples, Daenerys rises from the table and undresses herself, slipping the silver dagger under her pillow. She sweeps herself into cool sheets, going over her plans for the next day until she falls asleep.. 

Daenerys dreams of something strange that night—of Sansa standing alone in a dark, vaulting cavern, the only light coming from a burning torch in her upraised hand. The flames burn a strange black and red, like the crest of her house, and they paint sharp shadows across Sansa’s emotionless face, a crown of red and blue roses atop her head. By her side, Lady stands, fur rising at her ruff as the direwolf dips her head and snarls while Sansa stares coolly at her side, her eyes a blue like the dead waters at the bottom of a frozen lakes, flaring eerily like a demon of frost. She reaches for the roses and pulls them off, holding them over the black-red flames, and Daenerys feels a subtle horror blooming in her chest as the crown turns to ashes in her wife’s hand. Sansa’s expression never changes as if her features were carved from marble, from ice. When the last of the roses are gone, Sansa turns and walks away into the darkness, light growing smaller until it winks out entirely. 

Daenerys wakes with tears down her cheeks, and she doesn’t know why.

She wipes at her cheeks and pushes herself up in the gray light of dawn, her feet brushing against the dust of the rug beneath her. She makes her way to the windows, pulling back thick curtains the colour of spilt blood hiding a windowsill as white as bone. Slumping against the wood, Daenerys stares out, noticing the distant snow on the edge of the horizon and something sinks in her chest as she waits for fatigue to strike her. She wants nothing more than to sink into a slumber so deep, she might never wake up.

Sleep doesn’t come, and in her heart, she knows neither will Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is already partially written, so looking forward to get that up faster. Happy New Years, guys!


	20. Harlem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things with the Baratheons and Lannisters escalate the longer Daenerys stays--least of which is what she discovers about them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I DID have part of this written when I wrote the last chapter, but it did take me a while to finish it. Thanks for sticking with this, and I hope you enjoy this 8000+ word chapter.
> 
> Thanks as always to Halifax, my beta reader and now fiancee, for her feedback on everything.

Joffrey does not call on her the day after, which is time Daenerys uses to chase down whispers and mutinous murmurs of the townspeople if only to not think about her dream about Sansa. She’s surprised by the lack of guards posted around her tower, as if no one thought her much concern, when she creeps into the courtyards where pleasants, nobles, and merchants wait in a long line across frozen cobblestones to see the king, huddling under thick blankets if they were lucky.

Daenerys catches mutters from stern-looking guards with pinched brows—fit, young men who casts their glares downwards when the king and his Kingsguard passed, only to hiss between their teeth when they leave.

“We should leave for the North. It has a real ruler,” one man with a scar across his lips whispers, glancing about. “Our king lets a boy play prince.”

“You don’t know who’s listening!” His companion looks around, not spotting Daenerys, who shrinks herself behind a stone pillar. “They’ll take you to the dungeons!”

“That’ll still be a better fate than my ma’s and pa’s last year in the reb—“

“Shhh!”

“...I still see their skins hanging when I close my eyes.”

The guards shuffle away as Daenerys curls one fist tightly, pressed hard against the ice of the stone behind her. Exhaling slowly, she circles around the court, inspecting wares and drifting close enough to catch frustrating morsels of rumours and guarded gossip. She carefully watches the tension in the merchants’ wares, the mutinous mutters of the visiting nobles and townspeople, who glare up at the towers while walking away with tiny loaves and hunks of meat, a pitiful amount compared to the handful of coins they dropped into the vendors’ hands. Even the guards seem stone-faced as this goes on before them, and Daenerys feels a tingle up her spine, a sudden knowledge that something big is going to happen soon.

Once in a while, she glances back at the castle to see the gaze of one of the Kingsguard passing by who unsettles her—a short-haired man with a hooked nose, a dark beard, and a gaze more fitting on a hungry bear than a knight. It makes Daenerys turn away, avoiding the need to retch and reach for her dagger. When she turns back, the man is already gone.

She circles around the courtyard before heading back, noting the guards heavily posted around the throne room but the lack of them elsewhere in the keep. She supposed that sending most of the men up North to fight must take a toll on the amount of protection one can assign. 

Wandering through empty halls, Daenerys hears the brisk clap of her footsteps on the wooden floors, and in her mind, she would be coming down these halls with head held high, a procession of subjects trailing after her like a cape as she storms the keep to rip it from the dead hands of the usurpers. Instead, she walks alone, one arm still bound to her chest, hair dyed dark—an actress walking through an imposter’s court. 

She thought there would be more to this when she came to King's Landing.

Turning the corner to head to her staircase, she stops in front of one of the Kingsguard, golden-haired and handsome in his resplendent armour, his sneer making her hand clench. 

“Wench.” Jaime narrows his eyes, lips curling up slightly. “Have you come to catch my nephew’s attention? Or the king’s? Many women have tried before you.”

Daenerys chokes down the urge to reach for her dagger. “I am merely passing by while waiting for my distant cousin to come.” She tries to step around him, and Jaime blocks her. “Move.” She pauses before adding, painfully, “Please.”

“I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and you are just a whore looking to prey on the prince’s lust and his coffers.”

Daenerys can’t help herself. She snorts while Jaime frowns. “My standards are higher than that.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow and smirks. “So, what are your goals? A spy for the North? A bidder for the throne?” Jaime crosses his arms, jutting his chin. He glances her over. “You would have gotten more gold at a brothel as my brother would know.”

He steps in suddenly, and Daenerys glances up, alarmed. “I would be careful hanging around him.” Jaime leans in, a hard glint in his eyes. “Haven’t you heard about what happens to pretty, peasant girls who get too close to him?”

“As I’m sure a man of honour like yourself would know if what the other guards call you is any indication.” Daenerys watches Jaime’s expression tightens. “And how the king treats you.” She brushes by him. “Such a fine example of what a knight stands for. I’m confident your former king would agree.” 

Jaime turns and snatches at her arm, his grip tight enough to nearly force Daenerys to her knees. His eyes seem to bulge, and his face turns mauve. Spittle flies from his lips. “Honour? What do you know of it from King Aerys? You asked for honour from me to guard a man who made his wife scream every night while making us listen to him, knowing he was hurting her and that we were forbidden to help? You ask for honour from a man who burned a father to death in a duel, because he asked for his son to be freed?

“If you had known what he planned for King’s Landing when Robert arrived through the gates—“

He lets go, his face growing cold and stoic. “But there is no use in slaying dead men with our tongues. Do not speak of honour and the Mad King in one breath. They do not mix.”

Daenerys resists the urge to rub her arm. “Choosing not to speak ill of the dead? You have some good in you left—“ she looks him in the eyes, “—Kingslayer.”

Jaime raises his hand, and Daenerys quickly adds, “If you strike me, how are you so different from the liege you loathed?”

The hand tightens into a golden fist. Jaime’s handsome face turns a dark mauve. “He was a rapist, a mindless killer, utterly delusional, a sisterfucker—“ He cuts himself off and turns away. “I have better things to do than debate what’s already proven to you.”

He stalks away and, once he’s out of sight, only then does Daenerys pull up her sleeve to look at the red mark on her arm, stomach twisting tightly. The mark will fade, but the Kingslayer’s words would not.

Daenerys continues climbing and reaches the top step, boot scraping against the cold stone, as she pushes through the doors to her room. She stands at the window, staring out at the swollen city of King’s Landing, and wonders if it’s her fate to go mad like her father too. She scribbles across parchment all of her plans for moving forward, but all of them lead back to a frost-eyed woman she left in a land of ice and snow. Daenerys goes to bed that night, waiting for Sansa to reappear in her dreams, but her wife does not return. 

In the morning, Joffrey summons her to a sitting room close to his chambers, lined with golden goblets and curtains that clashed with the red rugs. He smirks as she enters, slumping deeper into his chair while a pitcher half-full with burgundy wine sits on a table at his elbow.

She ignores the bruised swell of his cheek, purple and clashing hideously with his crimson robes. “Why have you called for me?” After a moment, she adds with her jaw clenched, “My prince.” 

Joffrey smirks. “You should be grateful that royalty would even consider looking at a woman like you. I found some generosity in my heart to allow you in my presence.” He leans forward, gaze roving from her face to her chest, lingering below. “You are a beautiful woman. Any idiot with eyes can see that.” He pauses before snorting. “Except Uncle Renly.”

He gestures impatiently at a stool in front of him. “I’m not holding court like my mother. Sit already.”

Daenerys pauses, framing her question carefully. “The queen has not summoned me. Does she not care to see who enters her domain?”

Joffrey sneers, “My mother doesn’t have time for lying tarts who only want what’s in a man’s vaults.” He sits back and sips from his goblet. “Why would she want you of all people?”

Daenerys frowns and drops her head, acting as demurely as she slips onto her seat. 

Joffrey leans forward, yanking her chin up, and he sneers as he looks into her eyes. “As defiant as the last girl I broke.” He cups her face, skin feeling clammy as Daenerys clenches down into her dress to resist slapping it off. “Don’t worry. I have experience this time.” He lets go. “It’ll be faster.” 

Daenerys bites her lip, staring at the prince as he smirks, feeling heat rushing into her ears. She lets out a long breath before she’s sure she’s composed enough to ask. “Whom do you mean, my prince?” 

“Who else? The bitch that started the war against me.” He lifts a goblet from his side, gulping down the contents. “Sansa Stark of Winterfell. My betrothed.” 

Daenerys waits a few heartbeats before she ventures in. “I would have thought that Daenerys Stormborn would be more the target of your wrath—”

Joffrey lurches forward as Daenerys falls back, reaching for her dagger. He slams his goblet against the table, wine splashing out into the carpet. Daenerys eyes the sloshing liquid, thinking it would be easy if someone wished to poison him one day. “Who cares about that whore? Sansa should be mine! Not latched to that dragon bitch who stole her from me!” 

Daenerys bites down on her tongue, forcing herself not to stiffen. “I heard it was her choice.”

“Choice? She chose to be treasonous to the future king? She chose to defy my orders in public last year? She chose to nearly die from her disobedience?” Joffrey scoffs. “Clearly, she has no head to make good choices at all.”

They lapse into a painful silence with Daenerys clenching her hand tightly to stop herself from grabbing her dagger and plunging it into Joffrey’s throat. As if reading her mind, he glances up at her, and his expression startles her. 

“Sansa Stark.” Joffrey stares, looking far away. “She was supposed to be mine.”

In the depths of his gaze, Daenerys recognizes something familiar like looking into a mirror, and unease stabs into her belly. Sansa had stayed with Joffrey like a recurring dream—someone burrowed deep beneath his skin. Daenerys wonders if she’ll also have those haunted eyes should she lose her wife—if either of them died too soon. 

The quiet bleeds between them while Joffrey taps his fingers along the stem of his goblet. At last, his lip curls. “I tire of you.”

“Perhaps, the feeling is mutual, my prince.” Daenerys doesn’t bite her tongue fast enough to prevent a slip, but Joffrey doesn’t seem to notice as he dusts off the front of his robes.

He glances at her, frowning. “You will help me get her back. You will make her jealous.”

Just not in the way he expects.

He nods, a strange bob that resembles the motion of a chicken. “I’ll get her again.”

Daenerys pauses, debating whether she should ask. “What made you lose her in the first place?”

Joffrey sneers. “She’s a woman. What other weakness do you need?”

Daenerys clenches her fists in her dress. “Being a woman does not mean weak just as being a man doesn’t mean strong.” She meets his eyes. “Or wise.”

“What would you know? Your mother killed herself shortly after having you.” He stands up, already looking over at the doors while Daenerys tries to recall how to breathe. “That’s what I heard of Ashara Dayne—Lord traitor’s old tart, wasn’t she?” He turns to leave without waiting for her response, and Daenerys squeezes her goblet so hard, she’s surprised it didn’t shatter in her hands. She wonders what is the most painful way she could execute Joffrey and spends a couple of hours deciding how public she would like it to be once she takes back the Iron Throne.

Daenerys strides through the quiet corridors and staircases, winding up in her room with only her thoughts for company.

They do not leave her alone.

—

The next day, a contingent of resentful knights arrive at her door, and Daenerys is shown around the castle under a watchful of the guards gilded in gold and crimson capes. A handful of days passes, and Daenerys chafes in the solitude of the tower, like a princess locked away.

Joffrey calls the maester, who takes a quick look at her before unravelling the wrapping at her shoulder. He readdresses it, clicking his tongue all the while. “So much work for yet another of the prince’s fancies.” He studies her, narrowing his eyes. “At least you know how to hold your tongue unlike those useless Tyrell and Stark women.”

Daenerys grabs his wrist, startling the old man. “What happened to them?”

The maesters stiffens, opening his mouth when he meets her gaze, and he pales. “The Stark girl nearly got herself killed getting in the way of the prince, and the Tyrell one has disappeared. She hasn’t been seen for a week.” 

When he says nothing more, hunching into himself like a terrified hare, Daenerys lets go, and the man bolts from her room. What has Joffrey done to her wife?

She busies herself in her tower during the day, studying odd poems and books Tyrion sends over about multiple rebellions in King’s Landing during her ancestors’ ruling, and she wonders what he is suggesting. When the sun sets later that evening, she is called by a knock on the door, the Kingslayer bristling at the wood. “The king sent me to fetch you for supper.”

Daenerys draws herself up, stepping forward to walk ahead of him. “Are you a maid now as well? You are a man of many talents. One of which seems to be a habit of breaking your oaths as a knight.”

Silence with fury rippling through the both of them. Daenerys spots the tension in Jaime’s shoulders and feel her own tighten to match.

“What would you know of it? Why would you even care?” Jaime snarls, speeding up until he is at her shoulder. “Your uncle Arthur died for Rhaegar, not his insane father.”

“I--” Daenerys takes a breath. “I don’t suffer traitors well.”

Jaime’s face contorts. He spits, “All you’ve heard is the tales everyone else uses and have the lack of wit to believe.”

“Then, prove me wrong.” Daenery dares him with a glance over her shoulder. “What reason would you have to murder the king you sworn to protect?”

“Because he wanted to murder everyone else in the city before being taken down himself,” Jaime spits. “Because he had planted wildfire caches deep under King’s Landing, and he planned to burn down the city out of spite, regardless of innocents, regardless of the city himself.

“Given the dragons that his spawn brings with her, it seems to be the plan as well.” Jaime laughs, bitterly. “A family obsession that seems likely to replicate in his daughter. Blood runs thick, doesn’t it?”

Daenerys stops, staring after him even as Jaime continues walking. “You’re lying.”

Jaime curls his lip as he looks back at her. “Why would I lie about something people have mocked me about when the truth would have saved me?”

“Then, why tell me?” She takes a step forward. Her knee almost buckles.

Jaime stops and looks at her. “Who would believe you?” He shakes his head. “Ned Stark didn’t even believe me.” 

Daenerys frowns. “What does he have to do with that?”

Jaime goes silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he speaks, he sounds choked, rage thick underneath. “He found me and judged me guilty without asking a single question. For all the honour people give him, he’s unwilling to extend the same to others.” Jaime mutters bitterly. “And perhaps, you are the same. You think all Lannisters are alike.”

He snorts, turning away. “It’s just as well. King Robert seems to think all Targaryens are the same too.” Jaime continues on the hall until he glances back and realizes he is alone. He comes back scowling to Daenerys, who stays rooted to the spot. “What?”

“They’re not,” she whispers.

“Who?” 

“The Targaryens.” Her voice is barely audible.

Jaime sharply looks at her. “And how would you know? She may be popular now, but King Aerys started off kind and wise before descending into cruelty and insanity. How do you know that she won’t be worse?”

When Daenerys doesn’t answer, Jaime scoffs and grabs her wrist, tugging her forward, the chill of his gloved hand on hers worse than ice. “Come. Stop wasting time with things that aren’t true.”

Daenerys opens her mouth to protest before she clicks it shut, ducking her head so Jaime couldn’t see how her eyes burn.

They reach a pair of servants before a massive, vaulting doors, and they scramble to open it. Inside sits a table that’s longer than entire boats Daenerys has seen, ladled with silver platters of roasted game, fowl, and herb-crusted racks of lamb. On the far side of the room lies a long table, bereft of dishes and guests, while black beams cross each other high overhead. Candles line the occupied table, burning a yellow that almost looks sickly while a circular glass window hangs on the far wall, moonlight spilling onto the purple rugs below in a silver stream. 

She notes the people attending, which include all the Lannisters and Baratheons with two golden-haired children beside them save one. “Where is Prince Joffrey?”

The hall falls silent and turns to her. When no one answers, Tyrion raises his goblet and tilts his head. “The prince has a headache, much like his mother is wont to have. He will be resting in his quarters instead.” 

Somehow, Daenerys finds that hard to believe.

Robert turns to her, expression dropping from a snarl to a smile in a heartbeat. He rises, lifting his arms in welcome. “Such a pleasure to have you join for dinner! The more, the merrier!”

A blonde woman close to him stares at the king, her upper lip curling. Her features are so fine, beautiful, with hair the colour of gold coins neatly styled on her head, but her expression reminds Daenerys of the last time she saw her brother. “You invite a servant girl to dine with us?”

Robert scowls. “Use your eyes. Does she stand like a servant to you?” 

Cersei studies her before her eyes narrow. “No. No, she does not.”

Robert snorts. “About time you listened.” He nods in the woman’s direction. “This is Cersei, the queen of King’s Landing.”

Daenerys knows it won’t be for long. She curtsies. “An honour, your Grace.”

Cersei glances her over, features cold and sharp as if carved from marble. “How charming.” She reaches up to sweep back her hair, bright and beautiful as the first light of sunshine in the spring. It’s at odd with the hardened expression in her eyes. “Yet, another girl clamouring to get into my husband’s bed? Is the taste of his cock so appealing?”

“I would think that you of all people should know,” Daenerys snipes back to Cersei’s tightening expression and Tyrion’s guffaw down the table from her. Tywin sits on the opposite side of the table from the dwarf, narrowing his eyes at her and shifting. Daenerys ducks her head, trying to look as demure and chagrined as possible. “Forgive my insolence, your Grace. I have always been born with a sharp tongue, and at times, it escapes me.” 

Cersei waves her off. “I wouldn’t expect better from a begger from a brothel.” She pauses. “What was your tale? A relative of the Dayne House? Such an honour to meet you.” A corner of her lip lifts up cruelly.

Tywin sharply glances at her. “We do not speak like that at the table to guests. Hold your tongue, lest someone takes it off.” 

Robert glances between the two before clapping his hands together, swaying slightly. “We have no time for bickering! We have a celebration feast to eat!” He gestures for the servant to seat Daenerys, and they move her across the table from the king and the queen, who looks at Daenerys as if she would rather hang her from the top of the Red Keep. “It’s not everyday we hear news of a huge victory!”

Daenerys starts. “Against whom, your Grace?” 

Robert’s smile falters, and he lapses into a silence that soaks up all the sound. When nothing comes forth, Tywin shifts irritably at the end of the table and snorts. “The North. Winterfell has fallen.”

Daenerys stares, the silence suffocating in the explosion of the preceding words. Something pools in her stomach, cold and clawing up into her lungs, her heart. Her tongue feels heavy and dry in her mouth, like useless stone, as she finds her mind almost torn in two--a part intellectually understanding what was said and the other refusing to comprehend the impact of what it means. She notices Tywin watching her carefully, and she swallows, counting in her head as she composes an answer. “Congratulations, my lords.” The words feel like filth against her tongue. “It is a sign of your great military prowess.” 

Robert glowers at the table while Cersei smiles slightly beside him. Tyrion and Tywin both watch her carefully, one with curiosity and something resembling sympathy while the other’s gaze is cold and sharp, unfeeling as steel. Daenerys turns to the king, tucking her hands under the table, so no one could see them shake. “How have you accomplished this, your Grace?” 

“The same as we win all wars.” Tywin waits as a servant places a slice of roast onto his silver plate--rare with thin, dark red liquid bleeding from it. “We overtake the enemy.”

He studies her before smiling and reaching into his pocket, holding up the fish-shaped broach, silver and speckled still. “This belonged to a traitor. It’ll be a symbol for those who dare to defy the crown.” He tosses it onto the table, the broach bouncing and skidding across dark wood to land close to her hand, winking ominously in the candlelight.

Daenerys swallows before tearing her gaze away to look at Tywin. “I’m sure they received the death they deserve.” She drops her head, inhaling raggedly.

“The Tullys.” Robert stares at his plate, his hands curling together. His eyes are red from what Daenerys suspects is more than the wine. “Couldn’t we spare them? They’ve stood with me and Ned back when we--”

“They fight against you now.” Tywin dismisses.

Cersei turns to him, eyes flashing as she smiles. “Perhaps, you have forgotten from all the drink by your hand.”

Robert’s eyes narrow. He leans forward, growling, “I remember more than you think, wife.”

He sits back in his chair when he notices an attendant waiting nervously nearby with a jug. “What are you waiting for, lad? That wine won’t drink itself.” Robert sighs when the boy rushes forward, “It’s a great tragedy when your own wife can’t accept you as you really are.”

The words spark unease in Daenerys, twining in her stomach like a serpent. She leans forward as if trying to escape. “What of news from the North? How...what happened to the people of Winterfell?”

Tywin slowly meets her eyes, studying her. “Everyone inside has been put to the sword.”

“That’s a lie.” Daenerys clenches her fork until she notices everyone watching her, some with. “I mean, it is a huge castle, my lord. I imagine there are a few…” she swallows, “...a few rats left to get rid of.”

Tywin watches her carefully. “Bolton’s commander is sending us the flayed face of one of the Stark women caught in the siege.”

Daenerys’ stomach roils. She bites her tongue to stop herself from heaving. “Which one?” Her fingers squeeze around the stem of her fork, the silver biting into her hand. “Is it…” She swallows, aware of everyone’s gaze on her face. The prayer running through her head begs for it not to be Sansa, and she hates herself hoping that it’ll be someone else. “...is it Prince Joffrey’s former betrothed?”

Tywin stares for a long moment. “No.”

The kick of relief to her stomach nearly knocks her from her chair at the news before she’s flooded with horror and guilt. Oh, gods.

Robert leans forward, growling. “It better not be. Ned would have my head—“ He catches himself. “Depends on who flayed her. Bolton has a bastard that would lie twice on the face of his own mother if he thinks it would get him ahead.” The king squints. “I’ll wait to see the skin myself.”

His words make Daenerys feel less inclined to vomit. She clears her throat to change the subject. “Tell me, what became of Lord Renly’s former wife?”

The sudden silence that falls is suffocating.

Cersei leans forward, scoffing. “She left, dear child, back to Highgarden. Couldn’t take the pressure of life in King’s Landing,” she says smoothly, sipping at her wine.

Dany leans forward. “Really? I haven’t heard anything of her leaving.” 

Cersei’s eyes narrow. “Why would someone like you hear of it?”

Tyrion remarks dryly. “I would suppose that anyone would hear if a queen suddenly decides to leave King’s Landing. It’s not a matter of who she is, but where Margaery has gone.”

Cersei glares at him. “Who cares where she is? Little brother, make no mistake. There is only one queen in this city.”

Tyrion glances at Daenerys. 

Tywin drums his fingers on the table, fingers loud against the polished wood. “That was a foolish thing separating them. Renly may not be inclined to her, but an alliance with the Tyrells is needed to keep them in line. Else, they might go and support the Targaryens again like they did in the last war.”

Daenerys twitches, gripping her thigh hard to stop herself from perking up. “Did they?”

“Yes, they did. Have you learned nothing of history?” Tywin glares at her. “They backed the losing side of a war and made a deal with the crown to stop them from being executed. But I have heard whispers of them residing with that Targaryen woman, and with this annulment, they might have a chance to betray us if Margaery Tyrell makes contact with someone from the North.” 

Cersei shakes her head, smiling. “That definitely will not happen.” She sips her wine. “Not with where she went.” 

Daenerys presses. “Where did she go?”

Cersei exchanges a look with her father. “Wherever whores go.” She shrugs. “It’s a shame. She and Renly had such a good marriage--all politics with no affection distorting their judgment.” She shoots a look at Robert, who drains his wine. 

Tywin scoffs, “Love makes you weak.”

Cersei nods in agreement while Tyrion looks uneasy. Jaime stands in the back, silent with his expression unreadable.

The rest of the meal is quiet, interrupted by the short clinking of forks and knives on silver plates, the tense movements of the diners from the endless cups of wine by Robert’s side to Tywin’s still, calculated stares down Daenerys’ way.

Daenerys avoids his gaze by glancing at the two blond occupants at the table, as golden-haired as Cersei and just as tall and lean. She catches the eyes of the girl and boy who smiles sweetly at her, and Daenerys’ heart sinks. They don’t belong here.

The girl introduces herself as Myrcella and the boy next to her as Tommen. She asks, “How are you enjoying your stay here?”

Daenerys smiles as kindly as she could back. “It has been all that I imagined King’s Landing would be.” 

Tyrion snorts into his wine cup while Cersei glances over at him with narrowed eyes. “Have you something to say, brother?”. 

Myrcella looks over. “Oh, Uncle Tyrion? Are you going to give one of your funny speeches?”

“All of my speeches are funny, my dear.” Tyrion grins as he stands, head and top of his chest barely visible above the table. He grabs a goblet and raises it. “A toast.” His gaze flickers over all of them, and down the table, Daenerys watches Tywin clench his hands so tightly, his fists turned white. “To the king and my wonderful brother-in-law for his mighty conquest of the North. Men will talk for ages of your singular vision for the land, even against those you considered former friends.”

Robert stares down at the table, hands no longer close to his goblet. He doesn’t say anything, and Tyrion continues.

“To the Queen, my doting sister,” he remarks dryly, “May you always be remembered for your kindness and generosity of spirit. No one else in this city has quite the reputation you do.”

He turns to the head of the table where Tywin stares at him with burning eyes and lips tightly compressed. “To my wonderful father—“

“Enough of this facade,” Tywin snaps. “Did you have a purpose to this waste of time?”

Tyrion shrugs theatrically. “Why not talk about what everyone else is asking about?” He looks around the room before leaning forward. “Why not talk about Daenerys Targaryen, and what to do about her?”

Robert growls, leaning forward with both hands on the table. “I’ll break her like I broke her brother at the Ford.”

Daenerys nearly reaches for her knife but pulls her hand to her chest, feigning a frightened expression when the family looks at her. “Such violence. Could we not try for peace?”

Tywin snorts. “Child, there can never be peace with a Targaryen on the throne.”

Tyrion smiles as if waiting for this moment and leans forward. “Why not?”

Tywin looks at Tyrion like he’d wished the dwarf was gone. “What?”

“Why can’t there be peace with the last Targaryen?” He speaks slowly. “Is there any evidence that there can’t be? That she wants something more than the throne?”

Cersei scoffs, “That wench started a war—“

“No, your idiot son declared a war—one that none of us wanted,” Tyrion points out.

Cersei rises, face flushed. “How dare you—“

“Shut up and sit down,” Robert grumbles. “He is a bloody idiot.” He drums his heavy fingers on the table while Cersei exchanges glances with a guard further down the hall, nodding surreptitiously. He’s far enough that Daenerys cannot see his face. “So, what do you propose? Shall we bend over and let her have at it?” He sneers. “The Targaryens are all lunatics with an obsession with the throne.”

“So, she’ll fit in at King’s Landing,” Tyrion quips. 

Tywin growls, “Boy, I don’t know what you have planned—“

Tyrion throws out his hands. “What is there to protect? The city’s half in rebellion, starving from Stannis’ hold on the food production, from the high taxes caused by the war. Do you hear them calling out your names when you pass, or do you hear them muttering behind your back?” When the king and queen shift uneasily, he continues, “You’re building towards a fall—a precipice of power that you can’t recover from. Starting with your mistake of letting Joffrey handle the rebellion last year—“ Tyrion accuses his sister with a single finger. “—and ending with your obsession to kill the last Targaryen at the expense of the same kingdom you once fought to free!”

“I never wanted the crown!” Robert rises, leaping to his feet, his stomach banging against the table. “I just wanted to have a great fight and to have Lyanna back, but you cowards stuck me with it and watched me waste away on this forsaken throne!”

Cersei’s lips twist. “It’s always a dead woman’s name on your lips, never the living ones by your side.”

He whips around. “Do not speak of her like that again or else you’ll regret it.”

Jaime stiffens up behind the royal pair while Tommen seems to shrink into his sister who wraps a protective arm around him. Cersei doesn’t notice any of this as she sneers at her husband. “A threat? To your own wife? What a man you are.” 

“Indeed. Had I been man enough when I first got married to you, I would have slit my own throat years ago.” Robert shakes his head and abruptly turns away while Cersei’s face contorts in fury. “But Cersei has nothing to do with this Targaryen child coming to play war.”

“A war you tried to stall from fear of her dragons,” Daenerys fumes to which everyone glances at her. “They are nothing to look down at.”

Tywin studies her. “They won’t be any nuisance, given enough time.” 

Robert peers at him under heavy lids before snorting. “I don’t like what you’re doing. That maester fellow is strange. What he’s doing is unnatural.”

Daenerys immediately thinks of a stout man with a red grin in a tower. “Maester? Who is---”

Tywin waves away her question. “Little concern to a ...guest such as yourself. Besides,” he turns his gaze to Tyrion, expression hardening, “All this talk of peace with the Targaryens is useless, since one cannot reason with them.”

Robert shakes his head. “They always go mad.” Daenerys stifles a growl as the king continues. “Still, if she can do a better job than Joffrey, I might half-consider giving her the throne.”

Cersei sharply inhales while Tywin and Tyrion stare at Robert. She whips towards him, voice high. “Are you mad yourself? How could you consider giving it away?”

Robert snorts. “What part of ‘I don’t want this damn crown’ was hard to understand?” He sways before settling on one elbow. “If she wants the throne that bad, she can have it.”

Tywin’s fingers clench around his cup. “Do not be so hasty to give away what we have fought for.”

“We?” Robert turns to him. “I fought a treacherous prince to the death in the Ford after walking through half the realm. You sacked a helpless city after it opened its doors to you. Don’t you ever think we are the same.”

Tywin’s lips press so tightly, they disappear. “Your Grace, you are inebriated.”

“You mean to say, ‘My Grace, you are right.’” Robert whirls around to Daenerys, hand slapping onto the table for balance. He jerks his thumb at his wife. “And all she does is cheat me of love and respect.”

Cersei glowers, wrapping herself in her finery like armour. “I deserved better than what I got. The world cheated me, so I cheat it back.”

Robert stares at her through reddened eyes, his gaze surprisingly clear. “Don’t you have something more to fight for than your own selfish desires?”

Cersei laughs, a high bark. “As if you would know anything about that. All you do is moan a dead woman’s name at night, a useless girl who probably ran away with Rhaegar to escape y—“

Robert roars, slapping Cersei’s face, and she screams, falling away onto the table, and the king stares at his collapsed wife, expression torn before Jaime rushes in, pulling him away. The guards leap forward into chaos as Robert shoves Jaime off of him, and Tywin jumps to his feet, bellowing orders and reaching for the king himself.

Daenerys’ on her feet when she feels a hand at her elbow, and she turns to see the strange Lannister son by her side.

“This is no place for a lady.” Tyrion tugs, steering her towards the door.

“What about the queen? Your sister?”

Tyrion’s eyes flicker. He continues onward, pushing through the large double doors before closing them with a quiet click behind them. Grabbing her hand, he leads her up the hallway, climbing a maze of stairs and floors only to emerge into a sitting room draped in colours of crimson and gold. The windows on the far side point towards the town, lit up with only the faintest light of torches. 

Daenerys steps forth towards a small table at the centre and picks up a goblet of wine. She tosses it back very quickly.

Tyrion glances at her, amused. “That could have been poisoned.”

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have left me back with your family.” Daenerys turns around, empty cup swinging from her hand. “Tell me, do your dinners often turn into war meetings?”

Tyrion shrugs. “They certainly become dramas. I would recommend the pale ale the next time you watch. It adds a note of sweetness to the accusations and blustering.” 

Daenerys walks over to the window to look out onto the rooftops of the city, quiet and oddly still. “It would be a shame if a dragon came by and breathed on everything.” 

Tyrion grimaces. “I have been trying to convince the King to allow the city to install a firewatch. With the narrow crooked streets of Kings Landing and all the buildings so close together, it would be devastating if the city caught fire.”

Daenerys’ eyes flicker. “Truly a shame.” 

Tyrion studies her, looking worried. “You aren’t—“

“What do you think of the last king?” Daenerys turns to face the North, glancing through the vaulting window into the darkness, and her heart constructs itself into what feels like a hollow tower, as empty as the spaces inside her. There’s a spot of numbness that Daenerys knows has always been there, but she pushes the feeling away--the hole in her chest she always seems to walk around with. 

Tyrion is silent for a long moment before he sighs, “From what I have seen and heard, Aerys was as cruel as rumours said and deserved his end by my brother’s hand.” Tyrion tilts his head. “The truth is he already left us as a king through all his wild days and mad existence. He broke his promise, and we kept our distance. Or rather we closed the distance.” 

“Right. Like your brother with his sword in his liege’s back. Or your father sacking the city.” Daenerys places the goblet down on the table, hand shaking. “All this obsession for the crown must run in Lannister blood.”

“Perhaps, there are some of us who want to fight for more than our selfish wants and desires,” Tyrion says, softly. “Not everyone here would throw away everything for the Iron Throne.”

“What is there that’s more important?” Daenerys catches herself. Her tone is too sharp.

“Friends? Family? The mouth of a pretty girl between your legs?” Tyrion shrugs. “Why waste energy on something that will never love you back?”

Daenerys turns to the windows. “I have someone like that...or I still think I do.” 

“You have someone who loves you?” Tyrion frowns, tilting his head. “Why would you ever trade that for something that never will?”

“I—“ Daenerys doesn’t have an answer. “They...they would understand.” 

“You sound uncertain.” Tyrion cocks his head at her, so much like Sansa, it hurts. “Where did you come from, and where are you going?”

A kind queen had asked her the same questions a month ago, and Daenerys still doesn’t have answers.

Tyrion peers at her, tapping a finger against his chin. “If you were Daenerys Targaryen, what would you do after you achieve the Iron throne? It is a cursed seat—stained by blood, cruelty, and betrayal. Many have lost their minds to gain it. What would you do should you attain it?”

Wipe out every single Lannister and Baratheon within reach. Starting with Joffrey.

Tyrion seems to read something in her eyes, and he presses his lips together. He takes a sip of wine from his goblet almost lazily. “We are not all bad. Judge not the child by the sins of the father. I would imagine the same applies to Daenerys Targaryen—“ he meets her eyes, “—should we ever meet.”

Daenerys inhales, slowly releasing her hands from clenching. She swallows. “Perhaps, she would agree.”

Tyrion nods. He leans forward, voice low. “I would advise her, should I also meet her, that not all hope is lost, and not all is well in her enemy’s court. Not everyone loves the prince.” He glances to the side before looking back at her. “About the North—“

The doors bang open, and the pair glance over to see Joffrey standing in the doorway with his lips pressed together, nostrils flaring as he surveys the two. Tyrion looks over at the prince, raising his eyebrows causally though his grip tightens on the stem of his goblet. “Is there something the matter, nephew?”

Joffrey strides forward, sneering. “The maiden and the imp. Do you know how much of an embarrassment you would be to my reputation if anyone saw you together?” He glances sharply between them. “We all know about your reputation for fucking whores.”

Daenerys nearly smashes her glass onto Joffrey’s face, save for the slightest shake of Tyrion’s head. Out of the corner of her eye, a raven lands at the window, looking worn and tired, but staring at her with an odd intensity. It pecks at the pane.

Tyrion lets go of his cup, sinking back into his seat. He responds mildly, “Lady Allyria is a guest of the crown and your father. It would not do to be heard accusing your guests of unproven crimes.” Tyrion pauses, scorn slipping into his tone. “You certainly do not want to start a war carelessly.” His eyes flick. “Like the one with the North.”

“I thought it would not be as easy to detract you from your favourite topic.” Joffrey waves him off and stalks off to a side table where a decanter sits, seemingly missing Tyrion’s implication. “Aren’t all women whores?” He gulps down a mouthful of wine. “My mother certainly is.”

Tyrion glances sharply at Joffrey then Daenerys. His voice is strained. “Your jests are not funny, nephew.”

Joffrey sneers. He slams down his goble and gestures at his face, his hair. “What part of this says Baratheon, Uncle? Only a blind man couldn’t see what’s obvious.”

Tyrion opens and closes his mouth. He eyes Daenerys sidelong. “Allyria doesn’t need to hear this—“

Joffrey snorts. “What do I need to fear from some low-born girl trying to pass as a noble? It happens all the time.” He picks up the wine jar and sloshes wine into a goblet, drops flying over the gold-worked cloth. “Mother and Father are just trying to get me to marry someone to appease the peasants after that mess with Sansa Stark and Renly’s former wife. But they’re not the ones I have my eye on.”

Joffrey stares out a nearby window where the large, black bird sits on the sill. He doesn’t notice it. “Daenerys Targaryen would understand what it’s like to be royalty and yet not respected, given who her parents were.” He shuffles his feet. “We might even be similar spirits.”

Daenerys shoves herself away from the table, stomach reeling. They are no such thing. “She is already allied with the Starks.” From the window, she sees the raven pecking at the pane.

Joffrey sneers, “Those skinchangers from the North.”

The raven taps on the glass again, and Daenerys scowls at how insistent it is and how it looks at her like it knows her when they were talking about skinchangers and—

Oh.

Oh.

Daenerys inhales sharply, and the raven hops back, glancing at her. When Joffrey looks over and spots it, he rips open the window and snatches at it as the bird cries out and takes to the sky. Joffrey curses and withdraws his hand, several black feathers fluttering outside the glass and landing on the windowsill, like markers to somewhere. Daenerys glances at Joffrey who steps away, shaking out his hand, and she slips one feather, still warm, into her cloak pocket. She lets out a breath she doesn’t know she’s holding. 

Joffrey cracks the window onto the sill, the glass quaking. His eyes bulge slightly, and his lips lift into a snarl. “Dirty, thieving birds.” He whirls away, stalking towards her.

Daenerys stands her ground as he reaches her, smirking from above. “What do you want from Daenerys Targaryen?”

“My father wants her head,” Joffrey snorts. “I want her—“

“Nephew, that is not a way to speak when ladies are in the room.”

“As if you haven’t been gone on craven hunts in your alcoholic binges.” 

Tyrion exchanges glances with Daenerys. He shrugs.

Joffrey takes a step back and rubs his chin. “I will have her head eventually. But I want to take her from that bitch first.” 

Daenerys’ heartbeat stops. “Sansa?” When Joffrey sharply looks at her, she adds, “Your former betrothed?”

His eyes narrow. “You know of the tale from Essos?”

“Stories of your princely conduct spread farther than you know.”

Joffrey puffs up. “Well, the people should know me. I am their future king.” He swaggers to a chair near the side of the room and plops into it, silent for a moment. “I need to marry to become king, and who would be a better queen than my enemy dressed in chains?”

He crosses one leg over the other, smiling as he leans back. “Yes, the dragon queen will be on her knees before me, her belly full of my seed, her armies scattered and whimpering, and her dragons’ heads skewered on spears outside the gate.”

Daenerys twitches forward, and Tyrion grabs her wrist. He shakes his head. Joffrey doesn’t notice as he continues.

“I’ll have to take her before with Sansa watching, and then—“ His eyes flicker, and he hesitates as if uncertain before his face hardens. “Disembowel and flay her and her entire family like the disgusting skinchangers she chose over me.” 

He whips around and streaks towards Daenerys who takes a startled step back. Joffrey seizes her chin and yanks it up as Daenerys bares her teeth, wishing she could bite his fingers off. “You’ll do.” He drops his hands and walks off, wiping it on his pants. “I need a new woman after my betrothed ran off to lick the cunt of a Targaryen.”

Tyrion glances at Daenerys’ clenched jaw before addressing Joffrey. “Are you sure? After that what happened with Lord Renly’s wife—“ 

Joffrey sits down on an ornate chair, crossing one leg over the other. “That sword-swallower never consummated the marriage. I’m the prince, and I can annul whatever I want. It was my right to take her.”

“But Princess Margaery hasn’t been seen since you dined with her last a couple of nights ago.” Tyrion watches as Joffrey’s face darkens. “The guards say they heard shouting and screaming from your chambers—“

Joffrey raises his gaze. “Which guards are these? Tell me, so I can hang their tongues as a reminder to the others not to gossip about their prince.”

Tyrion goes silent. “The princess hasn’t been seen since then. The nobles are starting to talk, and Lady Olenna has written that she plans to come here herself to retrieve her granddaughter.”

Joffrey swears. “That old hag can’t come and go to Red Keep whenever she wants.” 

“On the contrary, she’s within her legal rights to do so with her granddaughter missing.” Tyrion fixes his strange, mismatched eyes on the prince before flicking them Daenerys’ way. “And she’s bringing her army.”

Joffrey roars and grabs the edge of the table, hurling it to the side. “That bitch! She wants war? I’ll show her war!” he howls, spittle flying.

“My prince, it is foolish to try and fight a massive war on two fronts. We are doing everything we can to suppress the North and—“

“Did I ask for your opinion, you deformed imp?” Joffrey whirls on Tyrion. “Gods, Grandfather should have had you drowned at birth like he always talks about. Then, you wouldn’t be so much of an embarrassment to the family.”

Tyrion’s jaw works, and his hands clench into fists. When nothing comes forth, Joffrey leans into his uncle’s face. “I deserved this. I deserved the Iron Throne.” He gestured to the surroundings around him. “It’s my birthright. I’m royalty. If someone took this from me, I would destroy everything they loved and held dear. I don’t care if other people lose everything because of me. I want the throne! It’s my destiny!”

Tyrion glances at Daenerys. “Sound familiar?”

Joffrey stalks off, barking at the guards to seize Daenerys and kick her back until she’s fetched. Daenerys strides forward, past the guards’ waiting hands as she climbs the clockwork of stairs to her own tower, twisted around a stone spine. The doors click close behind her, but she doesn’t look back as she crosses the floor and throws open the double windows, the wind blowing up flecks of snow that dot her hair and her eyelashes. She watches in the sky for a gleam or black feathers, but the raven doesn’t appear in the sky.

Bran doesn’t come again.

Daenerys covers her mouth, the rush of the dinner’s news coming up suddenly. Smothering her sob, she recalls how she spent weeks uselessly on the road while Winterfell was besieged, her arm still bound to her side. How her wife had endured weeks of siege, of terror, of starvation while Daenerys rides towards the throne, in the opposite direction of her vows, her covenant to lend her strength to the Starks when they need her the most.

Sansa would never forgive her.

After her tears have dried, she draws the dagger from her boot, cradling the silver blade in her hands, the gleam of a wolf’s head carved into its handle. Wickedly sharp and new, Daenerys imagines it would slip easily into her belly or her heart if she had to use it—if she felt herself losing the pieces of who she was, like her father. Would she be able to do the right thing? What is the right thing?

The door clicks open behind her, and Daenerys slips the blade into a pocket in her robe. She turns, and coldness prickles a path up her spine and nape. Before her stands the leering knight in his resplendent golden armour and red cape. No one else is with him.

Daenerys reaches towards her dagger, shifting onto one side, so he couldn’t see it. “Who are you?”

He pauses, shrugging. “Meryn Trant, though it won’t matter to you in a few hours.” He smiles, his eyes dark and cold like coal. “My queen has sent me to...take care of you.” Grinning at her shocked expression, he lets out a laugh. “Did you really think she would leave you alone? A pretty girl near her king? She’s already done that once, and it cost her a real prince. She won’t make that mistake twice.”

He closes the door behind him.


	21. Journey Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys fights for her path out of Kings Landing and gathers allies along the way. But first, she has to escape Trant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, guys, and I hope this will be a fantastic read. I keep hoping that the chapters will get shorter to write eventually, but...well, 8600+ words aren't too bad.
> 
> Much thanks to Halifax as always for her constant support and enthusiasm in beta-reading.
> 
> Potential Trigger Warning: some description of almost sexual assault. Please skip over the first few paragraphs if this is an issue for you.

Trant crosses the room with the ease of a wolf upon a lamb. “If you don’t struggle, I might let you go free.”

He would do no such thing. Daenerys tenses under his gaze over her body. “Please, sir. You must be mistaken. I have done nothing to the queen.”

“Nothing yet.” He approaches slowly as if savouring the moment. “But women like you are always plotting something anyway. And even if you are not—“ he shrugs, “—I get to enjoy my orders either way.”

Daenerys hunches down, trying to appear small and defenceless. She reaches into her pocket and palms the blade there. “Is that….is that what happened to Lady Margaery?”

Trant’s face sours. “No, if only I was given the opportunity. You do not want her fate. She’s—“

He looks out the window, and he pales. Daenerys follows his gaze and sees fire lighting up the streets of Kings Landing, an ominous criss-cross of orange brightness growing steadily from several parts of the city. “What in the Seven’s name?” He shoves her aside to stare out the window, gloved hands tight on the windowsill. “Another uprising? Queen Cersei should—“

Daenerys lunges for his throat. Her dagger slices into the base of his neck as he quickly turns, howling. She drives forward, pushing it deeper, but Trant whirls and backhands her to the ground and Daenerys’ vision goes white.

He glares, hand to his wound, heaving as blood spurts down his chest in messy, red rivers. “You bitch.”

Roaring, he snaps down and grabs her by the throat, slamming her against the bedpost, and Daenerys screams in pain at the impact, her hurt shoulder jolting. “I’m going to ruin you in every single way.”

He thrusts her down into her covers, sitting on top of her hips as he grabs a side dagger from his belt and holds it to her throat. “Undo my pants.”

Daenerys snarls, and the dagger hitched higher against her flesh. “If you will take me, you can do it to my corpse.”

Trant scowls, pressing the blade until it bites into her flesh. “Do you think killing you is the worst thing I can do to you? I am quite a gracious man, forgiving even with the blow you dealt me. If you do as I say, I will give you a few minutes more to have of your life.”

Daenerys pauses, eyes going towards the doors.

“You believe some dashing lord is going to come and save you? No, you are all alone, and you better do as I say or else I get angry.” He smirks, a corner of his jaw painted a lurid red.

Daenerys hesitates before slowly reaching down, hoping to buy time. The man is bleeding out, and he still wants to violate her. He’s mad. “Please, sir. It is my first time—“

A wide smile spread across Trant’s face. “That is even better.”

Daenerys pretends to fumble with the drawstrings, and when Trant growls, growing impatient, her fingers slip along the coarse fabric. “Sir, I am only a young maiden here to seek her family. I do not deserve—“

“No peasant girl would attack me like you did or show such reckless disdain as if you are entitled to the throne.” Trant rears up, eyes narrowing, as his expression slackens in realization. “Who are you?”

Daenerys freezes. Trant does too, and something must have crossed his mind because his eyes widen. “Are you—“

The door swings open and standing in the middle of the doorway is a startled Tyrion with a wooden crossbow in his arms.

Trant turns, alarmed, dropping the dagger. “Lord Tyrion!” He reaches for his sword, and Tyrion fires, the bolt slamming into Trant’s chest and sending him falling off of the bed.

Trant roars, pushing himself to his knees and pawing his chest. “I am of the Kingsguard, and when Cersei hears of this—“

Tyrion fires twice more, and Trant slumps to the floor. Holding his breath, Tyrion slowly lowers the crossbow when it’s clear that the knight isn’t moving. “She won’t.”

Daenerys heaves in the bed before quickly shoving herself up. “If you are for the same reason as he is—“

“If I was, would I have shot him?” Tyrion pauses and shakes his head. “Bad question. I might have still.” Tyrion glances over the dead man. “Ah, I got him in the crotch too. It wasn’t my intent but a bonus nonetheless.”

He looks her over, sitting on the bed and staring at him. “Are you hurt, Lady Targaryen?”

Daenerys blinks. “You knew who I was.”

“I had an inkling from the first time I saw you in the throne room, but only a tactical genius or a madwoman would infiltrate into the heart of an enemy’s kingdom,” Tyrion marvels. “I have yet to decide which one you are.”

Daenerys is in the same predicament. “How did you know?”

Tyrion smiles, a curious look. “Once or twice when I was a boy, I saw your brother Rhaegar at a tourney and how knights from all over the realm came to get thrashed by the crown prince. He was one of the best swordsmen, the wisest prince—a man destined to grab onto a powerful piece of legend.” He looks at her. “And he died, drowning in his own blood as lesser men stole the rubies that once adorned his armour.” 

He leans back, studying her face. “Pride is an enemy to all men, not just the wicked. And besides,” he picks up the crossbow, cradling it in his arms, “a proud, strong, fierce woman like you? How could Sansa resist?” He goes quiet. “So, what will you do now, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, wife of Sansa Stark? Will you go back to protect your allies, or seize your chance to subdue King’s Landing?”

Daenerys eyes him sharply. “You would not stop me?”

Tyrion holds out his arms, crossbow limp in one hand. “I would be the first to say that you should burn all the scum of the city and rebuild anew. But this is not about what I would do, but of what you would? King’s Landing is weak, my lady. Divided by in-fighting and furious at starvation and oppression in turns. The citizens are ready for a new ruler, someone to come in and change the game. The Baratheons isolate each other, and the Lannisters are not as strong as they would like to believe. If there is a time to strike the city, now is the time. I only have a crossbow. You have dragons.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in. “However, if you should take your chances while the king’s armies press forward north, destroying your allies’ homelands and decimating their towns, their castles, you would break your marriage covenant. And the North...the North will never forgive you.”

Tyrion gazes at her, crossbow dropping in his arms. “What do you want to do, Daenerys Targaryen?”

Daenerys looks out the window. A second rebellion is occurring, the guards are fighting the townspeople, King’s Landing is waiting for a fire to consume all of its buildings, and Drogon is only a call away. If there is any time to take Kings Landing, it is now with the city fighting each other. And yet…

Daenerys touches the black feather in her pocket, warm still like a fire at the heath. It almost sings under her touch. “Can you take me north?”

Tyrion relaxes as if she had passed a test she hadn’t known was occurring. “Yes. Yes, I can take you home.”

Daenerys packs up the meagre belongings she has, picks up the wolf’s head dagger, and wipes the blood off of Trant’s pants. Tyrion eyes the blade with interest. “If one needed proof of your alliance with the North, they would need to go only as far as your pockets.”

They shut the door behind them as Tyrion quickly relays the route they will take. He holds up a ring of black keys, dark with rust and something else that Daenerys does not want to examine too closely. “Let’s say a spider helped me retrieve these, and that the safest way out is through the worst part of the castle.”

“Of course.” Daenerys’ lips thin. “Lead on.”

Tyrion nods and strides in front of her, leading her down staircases, halls, and towers. They encounter no one in the empty halls of the castle, and it feels disquieting, uneasy.

Daenerys asks, “Where are the guards?”

“Putting down the peasants who insist on having a prince that’s competent.” Tyrion pauses to peer out a window, the flare of scattered torches in the darkness of King’s Landing like stars in the night. “You chose a good night to leave.” 

“I can only hope that my luck will hold with both the escape and the reunion with my wife.” Daenerys exhales.

Tyrion pauses. He glances back over his shoulder. “You have taken Sansa Stark to bed?”

“Yes, and it exceeded my every expectation,” Daenerys snips at him. “Is that your next question?”

He turns away. “It would have been had I not met her.” He shakes his head. “I ask to find out if you have consummated the marriage, in which case, it is now binding until someone of royal blood declares it null.” He meets her eyes. “It is an option.”

“No. This is not a dalliance so easily dissolved.” Daenerys stomps up to him. “Some marriages are more than just political, dwarf.” She surprises herself with her words.

Tyrion turns his sharp eyes back ahead. “I am glad to hear that.” They lapse into silence as they creep across corridors, lit only by the light of the torches overhead with odd shadows that sit in halls soaked in darkness. The echo of their footsteps on the rug underneath sound like muted scrapes. 

Daenerys brushes her fingers along the cold, rough stone, and she wonders how many have been built with her ancestors’ hands. “It is strange,” she mutters, glancing up at the halls that vault overhead into darkness. The ceilings should be seen, but the light of the torches only reach a few feet above their heads. “I would have thought I felt more at home here.”

Tyrion glances back at her. “Oh?”

“This keep has been in Targaryen possession for 300 years and has been the home of many of my family. I had thought that perhaps within these walls, I would have a sense of where they lived and their strength, their presence. These floors have seen generations of walking across the stone, footprints of great men and women who lived. And yet, I am all alone in a castle ruled by an usurper. And I am no closer to my family than when I started.”

She lapses into silence, and Tyrion lets her. At length, she sighs, wrapping her free arm around herself. She murmurs, “It is as cold and empty as every other castle I have been in, save for one.”

“The one you left behind?”

Daenerys stays silent. She glances to her side. “My brother, the last one I had, told me stories of my father’s greatness, of how the throne was stolen from him, and how it was his destiny to restore the wrong that had been done. My father had been a king to rule all kings, betrayed by those close to him when he needed them most. Then, I came here and learned that people feared and reviled him. They call him ‘the Mad King.’”

Tyrion keeps his gaze ahead. “He started off generous, ambitious, and wise. He ushered in a period of peace and prosperity. He was respected by all.”

Daenerys frowns. “But he grew suspicious of every person, every shadow on his wall, every mouse that scurried across his path.”

“He had suffered losses. He lost your grandfather and uncle in the Tragedy of Summerhall. At Duskendale, he was imprisoned and tortured for six months. It could have been enough to break him.”

“I do not know what your intentions are, but do you also believe he destroyed himself and the realm with what he did?”

Tyrion goes quiet before answering softly. “I was only a child then.”

“But you had enough sense to know right from wrong.” Daenerys shakes her head. “Now, I hear that not even my eldest brother held him as a man of honour—a ruler once benevolent and then descended into madness that is the trademark of my house.” She can’t stop the bitterness in her voice. “Perhaps, blood is too thick to overcome.”

Tyrion stops and turns to her. “Are you going to let your father’s mistakes determine who you are? If you get the throne, would it help you get your family back? The one you wished you had growing up?”

Daenerys flinches. She swallows. “I deserved a loving family.”

“Of course.” His mismatched eyes study her. “But how will getting the throne help them rise from the dead? Help them change who they are?” He lowers his voice. “The truth is, you are far better having only known your father from stories. The real one would have disappointed you. You are already a far better person than he was.”

Daenerys’ throat tightens. She slowly drops her head, covering her eyes. “I deserved a chance to make my own decision about that.”

He shakes his head. “You have been robbed by fate, that is no mistake.” He glances over at her. “But please do not deny yourself of a family of your own.” 

“What of you?” They continue downwards on their descent, the clicking of their feet on stone echoing in the emptiness of the tower. “Are you not a traitor to the king and your family to side with me?”

“Oh, I am. They will write me as a villain in the history books if they remember me at all. But I cannot stand around and watch my family tear themselves apart. I cannot stand by and hear about a friend losing her home and possibly her life. If I must be remembered as an oathbreaker, then so be it. Better to have died doing the right thing than to be a spineless sheep.” 

Daenerys pauses, slightly impressed. “And what do you have to gain besides a noble claim in helping me?” 

Tyrion turns and presses his fingers together, making a begging gesture. “Your grace, please. If I help, I ask you to spare my family their lives. You have three dragons. It is of little mystery about which side will win the war when you use them.”

Daenerys glares. “When I get them, I’m going to ensure your nephew dies a horrible death.”

Tyrion merely nods. “Please do.” He catches up with her. “In truth, the only one who will miss him is his mother.” When Daenerys opens her mouth, he adds, “Please spare her too.”

Daenerys eyes him. “What else do you receive from helping me?”

“The love and adoration of beautiful ladies everywhere?” Tyrion sighs. “T’is the dream.” They climb steadily down, Daenerys’ gaze burning on the back of his neck until he continues. “I was not in jest when I said I wanted to aid the wife of a dear friend of mine—a student.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrow, memories flickering back to a time spent in glass gardens, and her chest aches. “She mentioned speaking with you when you were forced together.”

“Not only that, I was the one who defended her in court last summer when she so openly defied the prince. The penalty for treason is the worst death you can imagine.” He glances back at her and pauses. “Ah, she hasn’t told you.”

Daenerys stops on the stairs. “What happened to her?”

He shakes his head. “If she hasn’t shared, it is not my place to do it for her.” Tyrion continues down at his careful, maddening pace. “You will have to ask her when you return.” He turns, muttering, “You are not the only one with shadows weighing on your shoulders.”

They lapse into silence as they trawl through the castle, plastering themselves against the walls when they hear the clink of armour when the guards run past on the other side. They climb down a flight of stairs of yet another tower when Tyrion shakes his head, touching the aging stone as they pass. “Our way out is through the bottom of the oldest tower in the keep.” He peers out the archway where an empty hallway leads down to a pair of large doors, guards waiting on either side. “It looks as if my predictions are correct and merely walking out through the keep is not an option.” He gestures for her to continue going down. “Through the belly of the beast then.” 

The descent seems endless, and Daenerys feels prickles across her skin, her neck. They climb down towards a gaping archway at the bottom of the steps, the stones around it jutting out at odd intervals, and there’s something about the darkness beyond the doorway that makes Daenerys shiver as if it’s colder than it should be. It reminds her of the crypts. 

“I am not going further.” Daenerys pauses at the topmost step.

Tyrion shrugs and continues downward. “Then, I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

Daenerys curses at him before reluctantly following.

Just past the archway that gaps like a maw is a gruesome sight. On her left, the top half of a skull sits hanging from a small steel cage near a torch, the light casting lurid shadows through the holes in the old bone. Daenerys looks away from the shapes on the back wall that makes her skin prickle and feel like it’s creeping away from her body. 

She glares at Tyrion who holds up his hands placatingly. “It is not me who chooses the decor down here, my lady.”

The cells and walls look dusted with a shade of grey that seems to mute any life that might come. They cross the hall past doors that all look the same, the silence that hangs in the air like a dead man from a noose is unnerving. Tyrion leads her down another spiral of stairs to a second floor with cells behind thick oaken doors, and they rush through, the chill pulling at Daenerys’ skin, her cheeks, as she tugs her cloak closer. Tyrion’s steps pick up when they approach the end of the second floor, another yawning chasm of stairs leading further into darkness.

“Quickly!” Tyrion mutters. “We need to get through the black cells.” 

“The black cells?” Daenerys tightens her grip on her dagger.

“The cells where the most vile and dangerous criminals are kept––at least those that the crown deems harmful.” He glances back at her. “There are no windows, so they are kept in darkness. Hence the name.” He peers around the corridor, and when he spots that it is empty, he snorts. “Rugen is earning his keep, I see.” 

“Rugen?”

“The gaoler of the Black Cells. He comes and goes as he pleases.” He shrugs and steps forward. 

The corridor of cells is worse than the last for the simple reason that Daenerys cannot see any light shining through the cracks at the bottom of the doors. A stench like she’s walking through a pool of piss into a stable that has never been mucked rises from each cell. They pass through a corridor of jail cells, walls of dark stone and iron doors. Tyrion quickly glances over all of the cells until he stops in front of one, fumbling with the jail keys out of his pocket. “This one!”

Daenerys stops and reaches for her dagger just in case. “Wait, who is—“

Tyrion jams a single heavy key into the lock and turns it as the door loudly clicks open. He pushes it, and the door slowly swings open as Daenerys swallows and steps closer to look inside.

There’s a movement in the shadows as a slender figure picks themselves up from the dirty stone floor. The stained edge of a bright green dress comes into view followed by the hesitant, slightly clumsy steps of someone remembering how to walk. When the figure comes into the view of the torches, Daenerys stares at the swollen face while Tyrion curses.

“My lady, what has Joffrey done to you?” He reaches out a hand to the prisoner, who takes it as she steps out into the light.

Daenerys inhales sharply. The woman’s face is a mess of purples and reds. Her left eye is swollen, red splotches reaching towards one brow and running underneath the lids like a bloodstained smear. The eyelid is still purple, and it looks like it hasn’t been opened in days with yellow crust forming on the dark lashes. One cheekbone protrudes grotesquely, dark with a heavy bruise while a corner of her mouth is stained a violent mauve. Her hair is matted, dirty, with irregular clumps of what Daenerys suspects is the woman’s own dried blood. The look in her remaining eye is a green slit of rage.

Tyrion inspects the woman’s face. “At least the maester reset your nose from when Joffrey broke it.”

Daenerys inhales. “Who is this?”

“This––” Tyrion gestures to the woman, who stares at her with a narrowed eye, “––is Lady Margaery Tyrell, the former wife of Lord Renly. Margaery, this is Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa’s new wife.”

Margaery blinks and almost seems to reel at the information while Daenerys frowns before the name hits her. She quickly turns to Tyrion. “You want to take a prisoner with us? 

“I want to free the heir to the Tyrell family and bring her into an alliance with the North.” Tyrion looks at her. “I was not in jest when I said it would be unwise for King’s Landing to fight battles on two fronts. Did I also mention it would piss off the prince?”

Daenerys presses her lips together as she studies the battered woman in front of her, dress dirtied and stained with dried blood, most likely her own. Her legs seem fine, but her face has swollen beyond recognition. “I am in no position to refuse another ally.”

Tyrion exhales. “Thank the gods you are not as stubborn as your reputation states.”

Daenerys’ fingers twitch. She addresses Margaery. “Is this what you want?”

Margaery stares, one eye hard with fury. “I want Joffrey dead,” she croaks.

“That makes three of us.” Daenerys turns to continue ahead. She makes down the corridor, the steps of the others trailing behind her when she hears a thin voice calling to her through an oaken door near the end. She follows it even as Tyrion beckons her to back away, leaning in close as the whisper comes again, and an instinct tells her she needs to open it. She locks gazes with Tyrion, whose jaw tenses before he sighs, holding out the keys to Daenerys. “Should a mad criminal come out to stab you, please do try to make a diversion as long as possible, so Lady Margaery and I can honour your sacrifice by running.”

Daenerys plucks the ring from his key and shoves one into the lock, turning it with a groan of the metal. Heartbeat climbing into her throat, she pushes the door open.

The door swings open into blackness, and the smell that hits her makes Daenerys reel, eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head as she staggers, covering her nose and mouth. “Gods, don’t they clean the cells?”

“It adds to the decor,” Tyrion chokes, covering his nose. “No buckets, no beds. This is why the black cells are reserved for the worst criminals.”

The figure stirs, more bones than flesh as a head lifts from a bundle of ruined cloth and gazes at them, lips missing from its teeth. “When is a septa considered so?” she rasps. She turns her gaze towards the trio, eyes milky white. “Tyrion Lannister. Have you come to do the honourable thing and put me to death at last?”

Daenerys turns to him. “Who is this?”

Tyrion studies the figure before his expression goes slack, and he pales. “Septa Mordane, who came with Sansa last year.” His voice quivers. “I recalled you had lips.”

“I had many things that the prince deemed suffice to take away.” She shuffles her hands, unseen underneath wide, dirty sleeves, and Daenerys is suddenly glad that the septa keeps them away from the light. “My student being one of them.” She trembles. “Tell me––” Her voice breaks. “––what became of Sansa Stark?”

Daenerys clears her throat. “Sansa...Sansa has returned north.”

“How do you know?” the woman presses.

“I am her new wife, and I join her in the war against the king.”

“Her wife? No, I suppose it does not matter now,” the woman sighs, sagging. “Thank the Seven. I prayed and prayed, but when they would not find a way to release me, I prayed for her.”

Tyrion suggests, “We could save you.” He glances at Daenerys. “We can take you with us.”

Septa Mordane shakes her head. “No. If you could see underneath these clothes, you would see horrors––things you know that are beyond saving.” She turns her unseeing gaze towards Daenerys. “You there. If you are what you say and are allied with House Stark, I ask you a final favour as a loyal servant.”

Daenerys pulls her dagger from the sheathe. “I’ll make it quick.” 

“It is not a light thing I ask of you––to take a life with your own hands. Lady Sansa learned that herself.” 

Daenerys pauses. “What happened to––?”

Tyrion shakes his head. “There isn’t time to tell that story, and you should ask your wife yourself what occurred.” He looks at the kneeling septa and pales, bringing one hand to a place between his chest and his belly. “Jaime once told me that to stab an unarmed man in the heart, you could go under his ribcage, and the shock would kill him outright.” 

“Any death would be a mercy.” The septa sags, wavering, as if even those words are stealing life from her. “Please tell Sansa that she did what she thought was right, and it wasn’t her fault.” 

Daenerys kneels before the woman, feeling along her front for the edge of her breastbone. The woman feels like little more than a skeleton. “She will see you in the stars, burning as brightly in the sky as you had in life.” 

Margaery clears her throat and steps forward, her voice a rasp against the silence of the stones. “May the Seven bless your way home.”

Septa Mordane stirs, looking in Margaery’s direction. “Lady Baratheon. You are here too?”

Margaery balls her hands into fists. “I am a Baratheon no longer. The prince has seen to that.”

The septa’s face softens. “Ah, then by the sounds of it, you have seen better days too.”

Tyrion glances around them. “We need to be quick about it. We’ve tarried too long.”

Septa Mordane nods and grabs onto Daenerys’ hand, startling the other woman and pulling her forward. She welcomes the dagger into her chest with a sigh as she collapses onto Daenerys who barely moves under her weight. 

Tyrion quickly moves to help her to lay the body on the cold floor, the septa’s eyes closed and mouth slightly open as if finishing a prayer. All Daenerys wants is the chance to give the woman a proper burial by fire, by ground, but even she must deny her this. “She should be under the night sky, her bones burning to ashes and her spirit joining the stars.”

“The North buries their dead, Lady Targaryen.” Tyrion’s gaze falters as he studies the silent figure on the ground. “But I too would have loved to grant her more than this.”

Daenerys closes the door after retrieving her dagger, locking the door with a shaking hand whose tremors grow more violent. “Why am I trembling so?”

Margaery stalks past her. “It is one thing to command someone’s death from afar, and another to deliver it with your own hands.” She reaches the top of another stairwell, glaring back over one shoulder. “We need to leave.” 

Daenerys tucks her hand into a pocket, the weight of the dagger against her side like an iron, a presence that Daenerys is now far too aware of. She pushes those thoughts as she stares down a dark stairwell that seems to bleed blackness. She goes down.

The fourth floor is the worst.

Tyrion mutters before a solid door that has no light appearing behind the cracks, “Close your eyes and try to walk in a straight line. Better for your mind that way.” He holds out a hand to Margaery who takes it before grudgingly holding out her other one to Daenerys. When everyone is linked, Tyrion opens the oaken door, and warm air rushes over them, stale like the last breath of a dying beast. Beyond the doorway lies solid darkness, thick and consuming, like a fog that makes the hair on Daenerys’ nape stand straight up.

Tyrion takes a deep breath and plunges forward. Daenerys closes her eyes.

Daenerys nearly stumbles over something in the ground, a divot, and beneath it, she hears the muffled ugly screaming of something that shouldn’t be down there. She shudders and hurries on, groping wildly for Margaery’s hand before she clasps it, thankful that it’s warm in her own and curls around her fingers rather than scraps of flesh around broken bone or something worse.

She’d rather not think about it.

Tyrion leads them down in a straight line, the sounds on either side sounding muffled, half-formed guttural groans that makes Daenerys hurry as best as she can, nearly pushing into Margaery’s back. After what feels like a lifetime, she bumps into the Tyrell girl and huffs before tensing, her head tilted to catch any sounds that she would take as a sign to run. 

A scrape of a grate along stone, and a grunt. There’s a clang of dropped metal, and a tug on her hand leading downwards. When Daenerys opens her eyes, she squints in the low lights of the torches overhead before she sees the sluggish flow of water beside her, and a foul smell rises that makes her stomach churn. 

“The waterways. This is our way out.” Tyrion steps forward before pausing, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t mind the smell.”

The journey is long and tedious, and more than once, Daenerys’ eyes are distracted by what seems like short clay pots stationed at odd points along the waterways. At some point, she stops at one and opens the lids, confused at the green liquid inside. “What is this?”

Tyrion makes an impatient noise and doubles back. “How does Sansa handle this? One day, my lady, your curiosity will—“ He stops and peers into the pot, eyes widening. “Wha—wildfire? Why is it underneath the city?”

Daenerys frown. “Wildfire?”

“An explosive concoction that destroys everything within reach if ignited.” He starts as Daenerys picks up the pot, tucking it under her good arm. “What are you doing?”

“Taking this along with me. We are not at an advantage here, Lord Tyrion, and we need each one we might get.” She tilts her head down the tunnel they were heading. “Lead on.”

They creep along the waterways for a while with Tyrion tracing a route as surely as a hunter in a forest. “I would regale you with stories of how I improved the waterways when I was a young man, walking these routes regularly myself, but I suspect that you are too preoccupied to pretend to politely be interested.”

Daenerys nods absently, thinking out routes they can use to escape the city as well as her plans to call her dragons once they ride north. At last, they come to a grate, which Tyrion and Margaery manage to pop open, and they step out into a brick platform just above the river winding through King’s Landing.

Tyrion sniffs at the air, scowling. “Judging by the smell, I would say we are in Flea’s Bottom.”

Margaery studies the surroundings around them before bringing her attention back to them. “What now?”

Tyrion gestures towards the stone stairs carved out of the side of the waterway that leads upwards to the street level. “We walk out. Not much more to the plan.”

Margaery curses before she follows the dwarf as he clambers up. Daenerys takes a final look around the aging brick walls and platforms, wondering if her ancestors have taken this path before. Sansa flickers across her mind, and she shoves her old thoughts aside. She follows them up.

The streets are a cacophony. When they’re not darkened eerily, there’s a fight breaking out, a crowd surging against a small contingent of knights who shout, swinging their swords before they’re overrun. 

They dart across streets before mutinous swarms, sprinting through short alleys dipped in darkness with their heartbeats in their ears of something worse lurking in the shadows than the mob. The smell worsens, and Daenerys is half-relieved since that means they’re headed in the right way. They hug the sides of the streets, keeping in the shadows and watching for people moving in the light. Tyrion walks them over to a cleared space with bundles of hay stacked neatly on the ground that look vaguely familiar to Daenerys. Behind a wooden bench sitting on cobblestone lies the sluggish river that winds through the city. A group of townsfolk, huddled and shivering in their scarves and patched cloaks, cluster close together, looking around as if waiting for a signal, a sign, a saviour. 

Tyrion curses, pushing back into the two women and halting them. He points up ahead to a lit street where a patrol of knights in battered armour stomp up towards the clearing and the crowd, swords out and gleaming wickedly in the lamplight. “They’ll recognize me immediately. Handsome dwarfs are not that common.” 

Daenerys scoffs but glances at the jar under her arm and at the stack of hay nearby. “Then, let’s create a diversion.”

Tyrion grabs her cloak as she turns. He hisses. “If you start a fire, those people are going to be swept up in it! They don’t deserve to burn for our escape!”

“Then, what would you have me do?” Daenerys glances back coldly. “Sacrifice ourselves to save people we have no allegiance to? You may be willing to toss your life away, but I…” She inhales sharply and looks away. “...I have a wife to return to.” 

Tyrion pauses, studying her with an unreadable look on his face. Close to him, Margaery glances at the crowd and crosses her arms. “Why not use them to distract the guards further and push them away from what you are planning? He and I could sneak away while you meet with us further down.” She gestures towards the bench. “Incite them to follow you. That is what you do, is it not, dragon queen? Even when it is not in their best interests?” Margaery gives her a hard look. “Like Sansa?”

Daenerys sharply glances at her. “What interest of it is yours?”

Tyrion grabs both of their robes. “Ladies, if we could focus on the impending soldiers first and then fight over Sansa later?”

Daenerys scowls and whips away, looking at the bench surrounded by hay. “...you are correct that I have seen no other like me that commands such attention.” She steps forward. “Make good use of the time I will buy you.”

Her boots crunch against a light sheet of snow until she steps onto the wooden bench and turns around to face the crowd, who shuffle nervously, glancing around as if waiting for someone to call to them. So, Daenerys does.

“This is the night where tyranny ends, and freedom begins. You have known hardship under your own prince, and you want it no longer. Tonight is the night you will no longer starve.” Her voice booms out in the courtyard, wiping out all other sounds as the crowd turns as one towards her, silent. Daenerys meets the eyes of the commoners around her, watching her still, torches held above their heads as if ready to pitch them. Even the guards slow in the ascent, watching her curiously as Margaery and Tyrion slip into the shadows at the side of the plaza. She licks her lips before taking a deep breath. 

“You wonder who I am, and why I am speaking. I wonder what you hope to see--the changes in the land and in your liege.” She nods to several of the crowd holding up torches and worn axes, hammers--tools that have seen their use in the bright forges of smithies and in the hard days of labourers. “You have come here to fight, and you have heard the rumours, the unrest.” She reaches out for the torch of a man nearby, who startles but hands his over to her. Lifting it high, she watches as the crowd stands transfixed, even the soldiers arriving at the back, the power of her words as binding as a spell on their feet. The light scatters the shadows away in front of her, illuminating cold, hungry faces; desperation and anger deep in the eyes of a people on the edge of rebellion, of taking by force what should have been theirs. And Daenerys resonates.

“I am one of you. I have suffered from the king’s action as every one of you have. The Lannisters have robbed me of family and home as they have robbed you. The Baratheons have displaced my lords--the true heirs to the throne--and grown fat in their gluttony and thievery from the people who helped them rise. The prince has committed atrocities against all of us. The prince has laughed at your deaths. He has shown himself to be more monster than man. ” She looks around, noting nodding heads. “The Baratheons and Lannisters have failed us as people, and they have failed us as protectors. They have failed me as much as they have failed you. 

“But tonight, we stop listening to their lies. They will not control us. They will not control you. Your enemy lives in stone walls, fattened on your suffering, stealing and murdering your family. Your enemy has nothing for you but starvation and broken promises and war. We will take back our own commands. We will make our own choices. And we will bring our enemies what they deserve. We will break the wheel or burn trying! Stand back!”

Daenerys hurls down the pot of wildfire and the torch at her feet, and the next second, she’s tumbling backwards through the air, blown clear of the stack of hay as she lands in the river. There’s screaming and gasping, and when Daenerys breaks the water’s surface, she glances up to see a massive column of green fire rising up into the sky like a sickly omen--a painted declaration that there is something rotting in King's Landing. 

The crowd roars and surges forward towards the castle, throwing their torches into the establishments along the Silk Street, and the shrills of the whores ring out into the night, the yells of their patrons muffled by the fury of the crowd. The soldiers bark orders and surge into the crowd, seizing the common folk as several turn to fight back, one young guard crumpling to the cobblestone after a swing of a blacksmith’s hammer into his chest. 

Daenerys keeps her head low to the stone rising above her on either side and swims quietly down the river as the guards beat back the peasants with shields and fists while frantically trying to put out the wildfire with mud and water. Her injured arm aching bitterly in the cold of the river. She keeps her eyes on the water, ignoring the screaming and shouting above her. 

She floats along the river for some time, glancing up at the stars as the noise behind her quiets to a dull murmur. The stone ledge above her grows closer until it’s just over her head. She reaches up onto cold stone and heaves herself up, coughing. A hand grabs her upper arm and pulls her up, hauling her onto her feet, giving Daenerys a view of a quiet alleyway behind a line of wooden houses. Tyrion looks relieved beside her. “I have to say your reputation for memorable speeches is well-earned.” 

Daenerys nods and shivers, opening her eyes to spot a blushing black-haired man in front of her, holding onto a large, coarse blanket.

Tyrion glances her up and down, eyeing the tattered and burnt remains of her cloak and bits of her dress. “I suppose wandering about King’s Landing nude is one way to make a statement.” 

The other man throws the blanket around her, smelling of hay and something musky as Daenerys tugs it around herself. Suddenly, she slaps the remaining pocket of her cloak, fishing inside for the black feather that she pulls out with a sigh of relief to the strange looks of the others. She can’t explain it, but the feather feels like a fire lit in the dark, a guiding light in the storm of her thoughts—something solid and firm that brings her intentions into focus and reminds her of how far she is from Winterfell, from her wife.

Daenerys turns to thank the stranger when she notices the broadness of his shoulders, the solidness of his frame––a working man. “A lady shouldn’t be gawked at, Lord Tyrion.”

“Then, I don’t see the problem.” Tyrion shrugs while Daenerys kicks out at him. He dodges it to Daenerys’ surprise. “Your help has been much appreciated…?”

“Gendry. I’m a blacksmith around here.” The young man glances over at her and flushes again. 

“I’m already wedded,” Daenerys announces.

“And we all got to admire the bits your lady wife enjoys.” Tyrion jerks his thumb over to where Margaery sits on top of a strange horse, staring blankly at Daenerys. “Especially this one.” 

Margaery blinks and snorts, turning the horse around to face the road. “I have seen better.” She clicks her tongue and wheels the horse around. “We need to get going if we do not want to lose more than your clothes.” 

Tyrion points to Gendry, who is still looking away. “We will need to take the blacksmith too. They will kill him if the guards found out he helped us.”

Daenerys throws up her hands. “Why not take all of King's Landing with us?”

Gendry coughs and disappears into the house in front of them. He reappears shortly with a pair of trousers and a woolen shirt that Daenerys gratefully pulls on, despite the long length

When she finishes, Tyrion opens his mouth when he pauses. He eyes her strangely. “Your hair.”

Daenerys frowns, reaching up to examine a strand when a tall soldier on a horse lumbers into the alleyway, a torch high in their hand.

Everyone freezes as the knight spots them, and even the guard stays still for a long moment before they reach up to pull off their helmet, revealing a familiar face and tousled blonde hair.

Brienne stares at them, dumbfounded, the reins of her horse still in one hand. “Daenerys Targaryen.”

Daenerys pats her soaking strands, pulling away a lock that gleams silver in the moonlight. Did the wildfire burn off the dye in her hair? “As you called.”

“You said you were Allyria. You lied to me.” Brienne’s hand tightens on the reins. “I believed you.”

Daenerys holds her gaze. “Not everything I said was a lie.” She approaches the knight slowly, even as Brienne releases the reins and reaches for her sword. Tyrion hisses and tries to grab for her, but she side-steps him. “My name is Daenerys Targaryen. I was born in the eye of a storm that claimed my mother’s life. I grew up in the Free Cities of Essos, hiding in alleys and afraid of every shadow that moved. I was sold against my will to a Khal, a warlord of the Dothraki Plains, for an army my brother never received. I lost my unborn son and husband through witchcraft and treachery less than a year after I grew to love them.” She takes another step, watching Brienne’s gaze. The knight doesn’t take her hand off of her sword handle, but she doesn’t draw it either. Daenerys strides forward.

“I travelled through deserts and seas, purging cities of slavers and corruption. I grew to have the love of a continent. They declared me their queen.” Daenerys’ eyes flick. “And then I came here.” 

She continues her approach. “I do not know what lies you have heard of me or that people have told you. I do not speak to them. I speak to you. In the short time here, I forged an alliance with the North, a marriage covenant tying our families together, because the North remembers what Prince Joffrey has done to them, done to Sansa Stark.”

Brienne’s eyes dart away, and her sword hand falters. When she stays silent, Daenerys continues. “I fight to return to my allies. To return to my wife, my...my love. I fight to free them, to free us. I fight for my allies and for my—“ Daenerys’ voice catches, and she finishes quietly. “—my family.”

She finishes in front of Brienne, whose expression ripples and contorts, mouth in a grimace with something torn in her eyes. “I am Daenerys Targaryen, and I am the enemy of your lords. But not you.”

Slowly, Brienne removes her hand from her sword and dismounts from her mount. She stands over Daenerys, studying her eyes, her hair. The line of her mouth straightens in a grim line. “To pretend I did not see you is tantamount to high treason. I would be betraying Lord Renly and his family.”

Daenerys maintains her gaze steadily on Brienne’s, tilting her chin up, so the knight could see all of her face. “Your lord deserves the loyalty you have pledged to him when you swore fealty, but I doubt he deserves your moral conscience, your dedication to what is right, if the knights who joined us are any indication. Is it your honour that binds you to him, or something else? Something that many ladies know of the handsome men they long to stand by?”

Brienne splutters, cheeks turning pink, “Lord Renly has been kind when no one else has. I know he will never look at me as I wish, but it is enough to be by his side, to protect him—“

“You deserve more than to throw your heart to anyone who gives you pinpricks of praise. You are not a dog to be bought with a bone.” Daenerys stands taller. “You are a better person than the men you ride with, than the king you serve. Don’t throw away your loyalty and your life to those who don’t deserve it.”

“You are a danger to the crown,” Brienne whispers.

Daenerys gestures to her injured arm. “Am I one now? Was Sansa Stark one last year when she was in King’s Landing?” She narrows her eyes at Brienne’s sharp inhale. “You were there.”

Brienne glances down at her, blonde eyelashes brimming with beads of something wet. “I was there. She did the right thing and was nearly executed for it. I—“

Tyrion clears his throat, stepping in. “You stopped the swing.”

Brienne nods before jerking at the sight of him. “Lord Tyrion—“ She glances behind him. “And Lady Margaery?” She pales. “What happened to you?”

Margaery’s eyes are as hard as stone. “Prince Joffery did.”

“The lady does not wish to speak of it, and just Tyrion is fine.” Tyrion holds up one hand, continuing on when silence seeps between them. “I suspect after this stunt that my title would not be the only thing stripped away if I were to be caught.” He pauses and surveys Brienne who trembles slightly. “But you know as well as I do that Sansa Stark did not deserve what happened to her. Nor what is happening now to her family with the war.”

“She chose her side—“ Brienne halts, expression flickering.

“As we all do, but that does not mean that the side we pick is just. There’s a belief in the realm that might makes right.” Tyrion straightens up. “But you and I believe that it is not true. It’s right that makes might. What will you choose, Brienne of Tarth?”

Brienne falters, one hand on the bridle and the other on the hilt of her longsword as the party watches. She jerks, shoving the reins in a surprised Tyrion’s hands and abruptly turns around. “Go. I did not see you.”

Daenerys stills as Tyrion glances at her before clambering onto the snorting horse. “Brienne, if anyone discovers what you’ve done--”

“I know the price.” Brienne shakes her head. “But the one for betraying my honour is even higher.” She blinks down at Daenerys, eyes in the nearby torchlight gleaming wetly. “You may have deceived me about who you are, but I feel the truth in the words you speak now. I cannot, in good conscience, condemn you to what will be a cruel death. You or the rest here.”

Daenerys glances at the charger as Margaery pulls Tyrion up in front of her. “Join us. You could find another horse.”

Brienne’s shoulders drop. “I must do my duty and find out what is just, what is truth. I need to ask my lord before I can rightfully decide.”

Daenerys’ throat tightens. “You’ll die.”

“That is up to the gods to decide.” Brienne glances slightly back, not enough to show her face. “And...and if I do, my lady, will you please remember me?”

“I’ll have the bards sing tales of everything you’ve done. I’ll have statues erected from King’s Landing to Tarth,” Daenerys says, quietly, her voice shaking, and Brienne nods. The knight tightens her grip on her sword hilt briefly before striding down the streets, her armour still shining despite the dark. Daenerys thinks that it’s the only one that ever will.

“Daenerys!” Tyrion snaps, sitting at the front of the saddle with his hands on the reins. “We need to go.” He shifts forward as Daenerys squeezes behind him while Gendry mounts Margaery’s horse, sitting awkwardly behind her. “You’ll have to be my legs for this.”

Daenerys squeezes her thighs, and the horse moves forward. “I am Khalessi of the Dothraki. This is nothing.” 

They ride down the dark alley towards the nearest gate, half left up as the guards struggle with rebels who try to wrestle control. The king’s men shout when they bolt by, but do little to stop them as they block the barrage of hammer and axe blows on their shields. Daenerys inhales sharply once they clear the walls of King’s Landing, glancing up at the quiet star-lit sky as Tyrion steers the horse northward onto the kingsroad. 

In her pocket, the feather burns warmly like a reminder, like a friend from a great distance. The wind stings her cheeks and sings to her, calling her like a separated wolf pack howling across a winter plain to signal each other where they are. She takes a breath of air, and it tastes sweet on her tongue, in her lungs, and her chest. It reminds her of the North. It reminds her of the last kiss her wife gave her.

“Are you all right?” Tyrion glances at her over one shoulder.

“Yes.” She shakes her head, wrapping one arm tighter against him, bringing her focus back to the long road ahead. “More than I have been in a long time.” She turns her eyes to the North.

And Daenerys heads home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the second arc, and now we get to the juicy bit: the war.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
